


Beware the Nice Ones

by karategal



Series: A Hobbit in the Lonely Mountain [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Clan Rivalry, Dwarf Culture, Established Relationship, F/M, Family, Hobbit Culture, Hurt/Comfort, Interspecies, M/M, Political Intrigue, Protectiveness, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:46:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 50,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karategal/pseuds/karategal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after becoming Consort Under the Mountain, Bilbo is struggling to prove his worth to Thorin's most xenophobic subjects and foreign kinsmen. However, when visiting nobles mistake Bilbo and Frodo for common servants, Thorin is not pleased and Bilbo has had enough. Political intrigue, cultural misunderstandings, and a trial of honor ensue...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or actors from _The Hobbit_. Everything belongs to the great and powerful J.R.R. Tolkien.

The Lonely Mountain slowly started to come into its own under the reign of Thorin II Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain. Of course, there had been a few hundred setbacks during the first few years, especially in regards to the heavily damaged upper halls, central mines, and guild halls. And this didn't even begin to cover the desolation, which had taken a good six years to reestablish into sustainable farmland. But without a shred of doubt, Bilbo Baggins knew that the Lonely Mountain would gradually become the great beacon of security and dwarven power that it had once been in the far North. Smaug had tried his damnest to destroy the spirit of Durin's Folk, and although it had taken many long decades, the dwarves had proven stronger than he ever expected. Apparently, the allure of gold and pretty stones could ensnare the minds of reptiles just as well as it could the minds of dwarves, men, and elves.

Bilbo was _quite_ relieved that hobbits were immune to all that ridiculous poppycock. Food was a much healthier obsession, in his opinion. Especially tomatoes. Nothing was healthier than a warm bowl of tomato soup and scones on a cold winter day. Anyone who disagreed could take it up with Gaffer Gamgee and his rake.

However, now that Erebor was beginning to prosper once again, a whole new set of problems had arisen in recent months. Bilbo had watched as a steady stream of common folk and nobles of all races had trickled into the Lonely Mountain, all of them eager to partake in the renewed wealth of Middle-Earth's richest kingdom. The hobbit had been quite excited about this at first, happily speaking to many of the newcomers and directing them to their renovated homes in the eastern halls. Most treated Bilbo with a great amount of respect or tolerance when they realized just who he was and how he'd deceived the dragon to help reclaim their home. Sadly, this didn't apply to all of the newer dwarves, namely those of foreign nobility and the more old-fashioned clans.

Everyone wanted the chance to impress the Dwarf-King of Erebor. From the lowliest jeweler to the most pure-blooded Blacklock, winning the favor of Bilbo's grumpy husband seemed to be the priority of every newcomer to the mountain. It was all about power, of course; Bilbo knew that type all too well now. But he had enjoyed speaking with the recently arrived guild members, journeymen, miners, and various other workers; most of them just wanted a glimpse of their new King and a guarantee that he was a capable and fair ruler to his people.

The nobles, on the other hand, reminded Bilbo of his Sackville-Baggins cousins, and that was never a good thing. There were a few genuinely kind souls in the mix, and some of the clans were much more tolerant and laid-back than others, but for the most part, Bilbo tried to avoid them like the plague. Thankfully, this wasn't too difficult a problem since the nobles tended to spend their free time in the ale halls or upper courts, neither of which were Bilbo's favorite places to visit. And due to his obligation in Dale's and Erebor's food markets, Bilbo had only glimpsed the nobles in open court or from second-hand complaints.

Many of those who worked for or associated with Bilbo's household were quick to describe the visiting nobles as narrow-minded, haughty, and rude to the servants and lower guild members. Several of the guards had even heard a few Blacklocks insulting Bard _and_ his children behind their backs. Disgraceful behavior, even for dwarves.

And this didn't even begin to describe their arrogant offspring, who were constantly strutting around the mountain and training grounds while boasting about their prowess in combat and between the sheets. All of them seemed to think that they could defeat the combat instructors and deserved to fight directly beside Dwalin in the Royal Guard, no questions asked or training required. By Yavanna, some of them even said those words out loud!

Bilbo was not impressed. Nor was he about to stay silent about it.

"I'll have you know," snapped the hobbit when he returned from the markets, "That a half-dozen merchants had complaints ready for me this morning."

Thorin squinted at a Dyrian trade missive. "Indeed..."

"Apparently, one of the Firebeard lords has been demanding a large portion of Master Hrûgen's wine and ale supplies," said Bilbo as he put down his purchases and started to prepare a hardy stew for the boys and Gimli. "Specifically, the ones from Dorwinion and Relmether. He was quite upset about that last one, I might add. It takes over a year for the Aharin merchants to make a round trip, so I don't see anyone giving up those supplies easily. Even to a bunch of nobles."

"I'll have Balin speak with the delegation leaders as soon as possible."

Bilbo frowned at his husband's distant tone. "I mean it, Thorin. Even Bard has received complaints over the last few weeks. And I don't relish having to give Sigrid the same befuddled answer every time she asks me to rein our guests in."

The King sighed. "I cannot forbid them from haggling their purchases, Bilbo. It's dwarven nature."

"Well, I never realized that legitimate forms of negotiation involved threatening to dump a bucketful of flea-filled leaf litter onto an obstinate merchant," drawled Bilbo. He used his favorite knife to chop up the onions and carrots, back turned to his overworked husband. "I'll have to inform our nephews of it. Kíli will be most excited to hear about this newly legal method of retaliation against the badgers."

"As I said, I'll have Balin work his magic with them. And Dwalin should be able to rein in the warriors and trainees."

"Oh, I'm sure that will turn out lovely," muttered Bilbo as he dumped some onions into the venison stew that was simmering on the stove. "I think they might even rival the Master when it comes to sliminess, which is saying a lot."

Thorin flipped through another pile of trade reports. "These dwarves are from some of the finest families in the Seven Clans, many of which are directly descended from the Seven Fathers themselves. A few of them are even reasonably skilled with their weapons, believe it or not."

"The Broadbeam lad literally _rolled_ down the hill mid-strike. And that loud-mouthed Firebeard knocked himself out with his own bola!"

"Well, he's technically a Blacklock."

"Oh, that makes it so much better." Bilbo raised his eyebrows in exasperation. "Dwalin's been beating them into the ground and dirt and whatever else he packs into those nasty rings of his for weeks now. And he hasn't found any that he'd trust to man Erebor's defenses or patrol with the skin-changers, has he?"

Thorin frowned and didn't answer the question. "Cook more; complain less."

"I should throw this spoon at your head for that. Whipping up a good stew or pie isn't the only thing I do around here, I'll have you know."

Thorin ignored him.

"Of course, it'd probably just get stuck in your bushy hair, anyways."

Still no response.

Bilbo added the carrots and potato chunks to their dinner and said, "I don't know why they keep trying. It's not like any of them can beat you or Dwalin. He's been wiping the floor with them all week. And is a little bit of manners too much to ask for?"

The hobbit walked over to his gardens and retrieved another cabbage from his rapidly growing patch. He'd received a large package of seeds from Hamfast Gamgee and his father a few months ago, ranging from carrots and eggplants to sweet potatoes and radishes. They were growing quite nicely with the soil and fertilizer that Sigrid had gifted to him last year. She'd ordered it specially from Dorwinion for the Consort's garden, which had become quite well-known in Erebor and the surrounding region.

"Most of them haven't even reached their first century of age. I wouldn't expect them to show such advanced combat or strategic skills yet."

"Fíli and Kíli do. And Gimli."

Silence.

"Dáin's son as well. Did you see Helm in the arena last summer? Very advanced, I'd say."

A few of the lads—mostly Stonefoots, who Bilbo had discovered also lived up to their names—seemed to be fine enough warriors who were open to constructive criticism, but Bilbo had been observing the rest from Erebor's battlements whenever he wasn't tending to his nephews or formal obligations within Erebor, Dale, and the Forodwaith tribes. He found their arrogance and pomp disconcerting, and he knew that Dwalin felt similar if the constant scowl on his face was anything to go by. And that may have been why Thorin had been so short-tempered lately. Having Dwalin and Nori and several dozen nobles breathing down your neck couldn't be fun.

"Must we discuss this _now_?"

The Dwarf-King closed his ledgers with a bang. He'd been irritable for the past several weeks, nerves frazzled by having four different delegations in his mountain at once. Apparently, a very mild winter and spring had allowed for fast and early travel across the Harad and Endor's easternmost reaches. Because of this, dozens of Broadbeams, Firebeards, Stonefoots, and Blacklocks had descended upon the Lonely Mountain within days of one another, thoroughly surprising an already agitated King who had been playing host to three northmen ambassadors as well. It was clearly beginning to wear on the unsociable dwarf's last nerve, which never boded well for those around him.

"You know why we have to discuss this, Thorin. They've been terrorizing the kitchen staff for weeks and I'm getting tired of making excuses for them. It's ridiculous!"

"The kitchens are your domain, not mine."

"And that's exactly my point!" Bilbo felt like ripping his hair out. It might even get Thorin's attention. "The kitchens are the territory of Erebor's _hobbit_ Consort. Both Hania and Bombur are certain that that's part of the reason why the staff's being harassed by your uncouth kin."

The King didn't even bother to acknowledge Bilbo's complaints. Typical.

"I have to oversee the afternoon drills with Dwalin and Glóril. Can you make sure that Dori receives these guild reports? And could you bring some of that stew down to the training grounds? I won't be able to return until late into the night."

"Yes, because I live to cater your meals in the heat of the afternoon," Bilbo muttered, eyeballing his stew in the light that shined through the balcony doors. It was perfection. Even a finicky elf couldn't complain about it. "I truly have nothing better to do with my spare time."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!" Bilbo answered, a cheerful smile splitting his face. "Just mumbling to myself about the stew and crop rotations."

He really didn't feel like having yet another argument with Thorin. Poor, sweet Kíli had walked in on their latest verbal thrashing yesterday morning and had been following Bilbo around ever since, dark eyes wide with worry whenever he thought his smallest uncle wasn't looking. Bilbo sincerely hoped that their current bickering match had not woken Frodo from his nap in the neighboring room. The little hobbit had scraped up his knees two days prior and was presently sleeping off the last of Óin's prescribed pain tonic.

"Where did I put that bloody knife?" muttered Thorin as he prepared to leave. "Remember, we have a meeting with the Stonefoots at the nineteenth bell. Don't be late!"

Bilbo gave the Dwarf-King his nastiest glare, but Thorin was ignoring him. Honestly, the dwarf had such an awful temper at times and it was all Bilbo could do not to call him out on it. But there were worse fates than running some errands for a grumpy husband, and Bilbo was more than happy to see said cranky husband leave for the rest of the afternoon.

He did slam the door behind him, though. Bilbo made a mental note to withhold all sex for the next week if Thorin's door slamming tendencies woke Frodo from a peaceful nap. Not that they'd had any time or inclination for lovemaking in several weeks, anyways. But it was the principle of the matter and that was all that Bilbo cared about now.

"We'll see how happy he is when he doesn't get his favorite scones in the morning," Bilbo mumbled. "And it'll serve him right for neglecting the kitchen staff so much."

Bilbo had gone out to his garden after that, deliberately puttering around in the early morning sunlight. His prize-winning tomatoes needed some tending and Bilbo refused to allow his husband's attitude to affect his chances in Dale's annual harvest festival. Thranduil's botanists had won the tomato competition for the last four years in a row, which was completely inexcusable in Bilbo's mind. When it came to delicious food and farming, hobbits reigned supreme, and it was time that Bilbo showed everyone east of the Misty Mountains that this was a fact.

"Thorin's not the only person who wants to knock that smug look off Thranduil's face," said Bilbo as he carefully snipped the dead leaves on the tiny stokes. "No Baggins is going to lose to an elf."

It had taken well over an hour, but Bilbo had completed his stew and weeded his garden without any interruptions. Frodo was still sound asleep on the bed, his little bum sticking up in the air from underneath the blanket. With a sigh of great satisfaction, Bilbo set off to work on the huge pile of ledgers that Dori had dropped off the other night. He really needed to get started on those, especially with all the fighting that had been going on down there.

"C'mon, dearest, we've got several errands to run. Let's hope your uncle hasn't blown his beard off yet."

It was already late afternoon, well into the changing of the daytime guard, when Frodo finally woke from his nap and Bilbo was ready to begin his errands for the day. He was certainly going to have a time of trying to complete them before nightfall. His arms were full of papers and a potful of stew; Frodo could barely be seen behind the high stack of guild ledgers he was carrying. So, to say the least, foreign dwarves and the need to avoid them had been the last thing on Bilbo's mind when he turned down a little-used corridor and brushed against a passing figure.

"Terribly sorry," Bilbo called over his shoulder, hurrying on. "Goodness, these are quite—"

Bilbo was jerked back a moment later, hurtling across the hall and into the hard ground before another word could leave his mouth. His head struck the stone so hard that he saw bright-white stars and Bilbo yelped from the extreme pain of his skull nearly being split open like an egg. He tried to struggle back against the large hands that were holding him down, but Bilbo simply was not strong enough to shake them off.

"Beardless runt," said an amused voice at his back. "Running through the halls like he owns the fuckin' place."

There was low laughter off to the side as well, which meant that there was more than one person involved in this...whatever it was. Bilbo fought to make himself stand, desperate to protect his nephew from any violent attempts these dwarves might make to his person. There were a lot of things that Bilbo Baggins was willing to put up with, but hurting Frodo was not one of them.

"You should be more properly respectful of your betters, scrawny rodent."

A heavy boot stomped down on Bilbo's foot and another voice said, "Ugh, why the King would employ such deformed monstrosities is unfathomable."

"Excuse me," Bilbo gasped, "But I'm not—"

"By Mahâl, look at his ears," said one of the other assailants. Bilbo whimpered when the tip of his right ear was cruelly twisted. "This must be what you get when a dwarf fucks an elf. Fat, hairless, and downright ugly. I can see why they've got them working in these back tunnels."

"What's wrong with his feet?"

Twisting his head to the side in an effort to locate Frodo, the older hobbit caught a glimpse of dark metal and unfamiliar runes—one of the would-be guardsmen from abroad, then—and a heavily bearded shock of dark hair. It was braided in a style that Bilbo wasn't familiar with and he could see at least a half-dozen beads gleaming in its furry depths. The dwarf's lips thinned with disapproval and that was the last thing Bilbo saw before his head struck the ground again, black spots and white lights dancing throughout his vision.

"Looks like he's been stung by a wasp fifty times over," said one of the other dwarves. "Hard as a rock on the bottom. Not natural."

Another hand viciously grabbed a hold of Bilbo's hair, turning him roughly from side to side, gloved hands running over the hobbit's smooth cheeks. He even pinched at Bilbo's throat and made a sound of disgust when he discovered that there truly was no hair to be found except atop Bilbo's head. The hobbit was usually amused by the puzzlement of dwarves when they commented on his general hairlessness, but this whole situation was more along the lines of a nightmare.

"Of course, it's not natural," said the second assailant with a nasty laugh. "And this just shows why elves and dwarves aren't meant to fuck one another. You get things like this in return."

Bilbo could hear a faint cry to his left side.

"Mind your place next time," the dwarf said. He then released Bilbo with a rough toss, moving away into the tunnels with his laughing companions. "Ugliest thing I've ever seen! Must've been from..."

Thankfully, they didn't return.

The wary hobbit waited several long moments before he tried to stand up, but this inevitably resulted in absolute agony ripping through his body and setting every little thing on fire. From the bottom of his toes to the tips of his ears, Bilbo was positive that he'd never been so beaten or mangled before in his life. With a grunt of pain, Bilbo had only a moment to consider how scared Frodo would be about this terrifying attack before darkness took him.

It was an indeterminate time later when the black of unconsciousness finally cleared enough for Bilbo to hear a faint buzzing near his left ear. He tried to bat at it with his hand, but moving didn't seem to be something he was capable of at the moment.

"Bilbo?"

Silence. Sweet silence. Now if only that blasted ringing would just go away...

"Bilbo!"

The hobbit just laid on the ground and attempted to ignore the annoying sound. His temples throbbed with the vicious kind of headache that he'd only had twice before—the first after falling out of his Aunt Rosa's apple tree, the second after the Battle of the Five Armies—and his body ached everywhere. It was as if Azog the Defiler had decided to use him as a chew toy for that awful white warg of his. Of course, that had already happened to his husband, so those thoughts were probably inappropriate in any situation.

"Please say you're not dying." A finger poked at his arm. "You don't smell like you're dying. I can't handle dying."

Bilbo turned toward the sound of that vaguely familiar voice. He was greeted with the lovely sight of dirt-encrusted toes and weather-beaten calves, which gave him a reliable clue as to who had found him in such an embarrassing position. And as the concerned face of Currin's younger cousin came into focus, three things occurred to Bilbo: the sun was beginning to set from the looks of the skylights, Frodo had tear tracks running down his face, and Thorin was probably still waiting for him at the training hall. They were supposed to meet with the Stonefoot delegation for the first time late this evening and Bilbo had been determined to make a good impression on them.

He was tired of Thorin being so skittish about presenting him to other dwarven clans. It was getting ridiculous at this point. By Eru, if Bilbo didn't know any better, he would have suspected that Thorin was embarrassed or ashamed of him and Frodo. He was a hobbit and Erebor's Consort and there was no changing that, no matter how much the Royal Council or Thorin might wish it.

"I fear that my head's been cracked open," he gasped, crying out as he moved to sit. "Where's Frodo?"

"Right over here, I found him just after—"

His arms were immediately full of Frodo, dark curls tickling his nose as the little boy whimpered into his throat. Bilbo checked the child for any sign of injuries or ill treatment, but it appeared that the older hobbit had received the full brunt of their assailants' wrath. He was still going to take the boy to see Óin as soon as possible, though. One could never be too careful with a small child.

"Are you alright?"

Bilbo finally took a moment to look at his unexpected helper. Even with the spattering of fur that covered the skin of most skin-changers, it didn't take long for Bilbo to spot the dark bruise that was already forming around Glyn's left eye. The lad also had a small cut on his cheek, which raised Bilbo's suspicions about what had happened while he'd been knocked out. Glyn wasn't even a tween yet—at least in skin-changer years—and Currin tended to keep a very close eye on her little cousin, so it was quite unusual for him to be visibly injured in any way.

Dirty and stinky, yes; bruised and bleeding, absolutely not.

"Perhaps I should be asking the same thing of you," said the hobbit. He very gently tapped at Glyn's cheek. "It was those atrocious barbarians, wasn't it?"

Glyn ducked his head and nodded. "I stood in their way."

"I need to get to the training halls," Bilbo said after thoroughly checking his nephew and the young skin-changer. "Now, help me up. Well, c'mon now..."

"Do you really think—"

"Please, Glyn," begged the hobbit. "If just for the moment. Listen to me."

The young wolf lifted Bilbo off the floor, hands resting under his armpits to avoid the worst bruises. Bilbo's legs nearly collapsed a few times and Frodo clung to his chest like an extra-stubborn parasite. A large puddle of stew and papers and ledgers were scattered all over the ground, totally destroyed and useless after being drenched for so long. He grinned spitefully at the fact that Thorin wouldn't be getting his blasted stew now. It served him right for being such a big, rude jerk over the past couple weeks.

"Not too quickly, my boy. You've a few bruises yourself."

Bilbo both heard and felt the skin-changer snort, his attitude and overall personality so similar to Currin's that it was sometimes hard for the hobbit to tell them apart. Their facial features and coloring were even remarkably alike, which Currin always attributed to their identical twin mothers and their bad habit of producing litters that all looked like exact copies of each other.

"You don't smell very good, Bilbo." The boy even sniffed him to confirm it. "Should I fetch Master Óin?"

"In due time."

Glyn kept a tight hold on Erebor's Consort, clawed fingers trying their damnedest not to hurt Bilbo in any way. The hobbit graced Glyn with a weary smile, inwardly knowing that he would have face-planted without the boy's careful assistance. His own nephew's incessant clinginess didn't make things any easier, either. Not that Bilbo would ever begrudge his dear, sweet Frodo some coddling and comfort in a terrible situation like this. Spoiling his three boys was Bilbo's most important job, after all.

"Who were those dwarves? I didn't recognize their scents."

"Some of the visiting delegation members," Bilbo said through clenched teeth. "They acted like they owned the mountain, the awful brats."

"That isn't surprising. They've been causing quite a bit of havoc down in the smithies. You're going to tell the King right away, right?" Glyn asked. He seemed to be missing a patch of fur near his ear, too. "He'll be furious when he sees what they did to you and Frodo."

"We'll have to wait and see about that," said Bilbo, almost overbalancing as Frodo clutched at his legs. He simply couldn't hold the boy with his arm being injured the way it was. "We haven't exactly been seeing eye-to-eye over the past few weeks. And Erebor desperately needs any trade and peace treaties it can get right now. I can't jeopardize that."

Glyn's lips thinned, the young wolf obviously not happy with Erebor's Consort and his decision. Meanwhile, Bilbo discovered that his poor left arm was all but useless and everything they'd been carrying was beyond salvaging. Dori wasn't going to be amused when he found out that all of his ledgers for the guilds had met a stewy end. The numbers from those reports were going to be a main topic of discussion at tonight's delegation meeting.

"Could you possibly carry the least damaged ones?" Bilbo asked. "I'd prefer not to abandon all of them."

The skin-changer retrieved a small pile of ledgers that had escaped the worst of the stew and carefully positioned them in his arms. Bilbo stepped forward and tried not to whimper. Much. He'd definitely be paying Óin a visit later tonight, though. And making a meat pie for Glyn sometime this week, too. The poor lad, who was normally quite talkative and friendly, looked like he was about to pass out from a headache as well.

Glyn sniffed him again. "I should take you to see the healers. Like, right now."

"I was planning to do exactly that after the meeting," Bilbo assured. He smiled at Glyn, grateful that it was the tween who had found him out cold and not one of the visiting delegation members. He preferred not to think about what their reactions might be to Frodo and himself. "But thank you, anyways, Glyn."

"Well, if you could smell yourself—and it's not a pretty smell right now—you'd insist on me escorting you to the King or at least one of the Company members," said Glyn as he ignored Bilbo's attempts to downplay the situation. "What if the same dwarves come across you and Frodo again? I can't allow that to happen."

It must've been very bad, if Glyn was reacting like this. Bilbo tried to think of a way to mask or cover his appearance, but nothing came to mind. Using the Ring wouldn't work since that only made him invisible, and Bilbo _needed_ to be seen at the meeting. Erebor's Consort had been forced into a Thorin-imposed house arrest over the past several weeks, so continuing to hide would only raise questions that they didn't need from the visiting dwarf clans. Fíli and Kíli had become increasingly annoyed with their uncle in recent days and Bilbo was beginning to see things from their perspective now.

Frodo just clung even tighter to his uncle's left leg, and the older hobbit wished that he had a spare arm to cuddle the little boy with. This incident was going to cause some problems in the coming days, Bilbo knew. His youngest nephew didn't take well to violence of any kind and always skirted around the rougher play that was so common to dwarflings. No matter how long they lived in Erebor, that particular hobbit trait would never fade from either Baggins.

"I'll be fine," Bilbo said, smiling even harder. "If there's one thing I'm good at, it's handling loud-mouthed, arrogant, and unruly dwarves."

The assurances still weren't wholly received, but Glyn did nod and start walking down the corridor with his load of ledgers. Bilbo limped off with as much dignity as possible, desperately trying not to trip over Frodo's constant clinging. The throbbing in his head felt like a pulse that just wouldn't go away. Bilbo would've given almost anything for an ice pack or one of Óin's tonics at that moment.

And because of this, he didn't notice the young dwarf trailing behind them the whole way outside.


	2. Chapter II

The sun had just started to sink below the horizon when Bilbo arrived at the training hall. In the usual manner of hobbits and skin-changers, they easily passed by the crowd of combatants without notice and made their way over to Dwalin's favored spot near the eastern wall. Everyone on the open battlements was focused on their own matches, several dwarves laying off to the side in exhaustion. Bilbo could easily make out his husband on one of the sparring mounds, two young Firebeards circling around the Lonely Mountain's King, both obviously looking for a chink in his nigh-impervious defenses. If Bilbo could just sneak by and make himself appear occupied with the ledgers at the top of the stands, then he could avoid most of the—

"Mahâl's beard, Bilbo!"

The hobbit and Glyn both jumped at the shout. A very bewildered Gimli came up beside him, calloused hands waving through the air like he didn't want to touch Bilbo for fear of breaking him. Instead, he just started bouncing from foot to foot like a half-crazed bird. It was a bizarre sight, to say the least.

"What on Arda happened to you?" Gimli didn't understand the concept of discretion, either. "And Glyn's missing fur?! Was it the ravens again?"

"No, we had a rather unpleasant—"

The young dwarf scoffed. "I'll not be hearing any flimsy excuses this time, _Master_ Baggins. I know better now."

"Oh bother..."

Within a few short seconds, six familiar figures had converged on Bilbo and the children as a single unit of indignant hairiness. It took no prompting for Frodo to dash straight into Dwalin's arms, the little hobbit instantly squishing himself right into the giant dwarf's beard and fur-lined tunic. Glyn was immediately pulled forward by the warrior dwarf for closer inspection as well. All of the others looked to Bilbo for an explanation.

"Took part in a slight scuffle, I fear."

He heard Glyn yelp behind him, Dwalin's fingers obviously having found the gigantic goose egg and shallow gash on the back of the shapeshifter's head. Bilbo had only briefly examined it himself, but the hobbit knew that the faintest scent of Glyn's blood would draw Currin and Rowan to them in a matter of minutes. Unfortunately, Thorin had said little about the skin-changer patrols in recent weeks, so Bilbo didn't know if the lad's cousins were outside the mountain or not.

"Slight, you say?" Glóin raised an eyebrow when Bilbo flinched away from his touch. "That looks far worse than a mere scuffle, laddie."

"The wee one seems to agree," stated Dwalin. "Ahhhh, not the beard, mizimith."

Head aching as terribly as it was, Bilbo didn't notice the young dwarf that dashed off from behind the stands, his footsteps as silent as a hobbit's and his overall movements just as stealthy as the spymaster who had trained him. Another one could just barely be seen behind a nearby tapestry, small body swiftly disappearing into the stone walls like a ghost.

"I used one of the back corridors," said Bilbo, "And kinda collided with a couple of dwarves."

Off to the side, Frodo whimpered at the mention of the incident. His small arms were wrapped tightly around Dwalin and Frodo refused to emerge even when Gimli tried to coax him out. It was incredibly unlike the faunt and he actually attempted to burrow his way into Dwalin's furred armor a few times. If possible, the captain's face just got even more thunderous, dark eyes roving the hall for someone to take his frustrations out on.

"It looks like you got into a fight with a warg and lost," said Gimli. "And maybe a troll, too."

"Thank you, Gimli. Just what I needed to hear."

"What has happened?"

Glóril was now beside him, her favorite axe poised over her shoulder, dark eyes carefully assessing the visible damage to Bilbo and the two children. She looked murderous, which was really saying something. Bilbo wouldn't be surprised if she tried to—

"Bilbo! The Stonefoot delegation is scheduled to meet with us in less than hour. Where on Arda have you been? And the daily patrols haven't reported in about the eastern borders yet. Hundor! Find those blasted skin-changers! I'll not have them waking me in the middle of the night again."

"Your Highness, I don't think that they'll—"

"Just take a slab of meat and jar of honey from the kitchens as a peace offering. It'll keep the badgers from trying to chew on your hands. Maybe. It works for Kíli, but I can't make any promises."

"Of course, sire."

And that would be Bilbo's ever-irritable husband. As had been Thorin's wont over the past few weeks, he would gripe and groan to Bilbo, complain about the lateness of his food, and then stomp off to meet with the next batch of delegates on his list. Then Bilbo could finish his blasted duties as Consort Under the Mountain and check in with Óin to have his bruised ribs, fingers, and throbbing head seen to. It was on the verge of becoming a migraine by that point.

"You didn't deliver the—"

The irritated look on Thorin's face disappeared as soon as he had a clear view of his husband. A dark look passed over his face, eyes narrowing in a glare that he usually only reserved for Thranduil, wargs, and idiots who questioned his orders. Bilbo groaned inwardly at the intense anger on Thorin's face, already knowing that bloodshed was going to be inevitable now. It was a quiet whimper from Frodo that kept him silent and rooted to the ground.

"Bilbo, who did this to you?"

The King had barely approached before his eyes swept to the side and widened, having spotted the equally disheveled forms of Glyn and Frodo, who were both still tucked under Dwalin's arms. The former was now leaning into the dwarf's side, his left cheek covered by an angry bruise that was only getting darker with each passing minute. It was easy to see the murder in Thorin's face.

"Who _did_ this?"

The hobbit was thinking about how to best describe the ordeal to his husband when a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. Glóin was immediately at his side, carefully steering the nauseous hobbit towards the stands. They had barely moved ten feet before Bilbo leaned over and vomited all over his husband's boots. Thorin's shout was the last thing he heard before another lovely wave of darkness set in...

When Bilbo next opened his eyes, he was laying just beside the stands, golden eyes staring right down at him. Dwalin's large hand was on his injured shoulder, holding him immobile to prevent any further injury to himself. The hobbit felt like vomiting again.

"Evening, Bilbo."

Currin was leaning overtop of him, buck naked and covered in a healthy layer of dirt and moss like she usually was after finishing up a patrol along the eastern borders. Her nose was twitching incessantly, eyes closed as she attempted to pick up the scent of his attackers. Bilbo tried not to sneeze when her mop of curly hair tickled the spot right beneath his battered nose.

"Will you be able to track them down?" rumbled Dwalin.

Bilbo wondered where Glyn was. The skin-changers were a lot of things: prone to nudity, animalistic in much of their behavior, completely lacking in table manners, and very blunt when it came to bodily functions. But in regards to protecting their own, there was nothing more dangerous than a shapeshifting beast who could easily rip a grown elf, man, or dwarf's throat out. He had seen Currin do exactly that before and it wasn't a pretty sight.

"Well?"

Golden eyes popping open, Currin gave a sharp nod and then took off with two badgers at her mud-covered heels. Bilbo hadn't even noticed that they were there, which was a sad testament to just how fuzzy his head and senses were—keeping an eye on the honey-loving sisters was usually at the top of his priority list. They were a public menace at the best of times.

"Fetch Óin," the King ordered to Gimli. "Where is Frodo?"

The faunt was tucked up tight in Glóril's arms now, eerily silent as the female dwarf fussed over his reddened ears and snotty nose. However, he did immediately respond to his dwarven uncle's touch, hands making grabby-motions for Thorin. Unfortunately, the King was only able to offer him a light head bump and kiss until the current situation was resolved. Frodo was not happy about this.

"I've got him now, Thorin. His ears appear to be the only part they touched or purposely hurt."

"Cursed sacks of mulch," growled Glóin. The redhead was glowering at Bilbo's foot like it had personally offended him, Glyn half-dozing against his side. "I'll smash them into the ground like turnips when we find them."

Thorin gently touched Bilbo's face and the hobbit realized that things were going to get much more complicated from here on out. Dwarves were incredibly vindictive, as were skin-changers, and the foreign nobles who attacked Bilbo and the children would likely be executed or maimed as a direct result of their arrogant stupidity. Retribution was an integral part of dwarven culture and Bilbo feared what this could do to Erebor's relations with the visiting clans. They _really_ didn't need another enemy like the Ironfists.

"Bilbo, I need you to tell me who did this to you and the boys."

His husband looked like a thundercloud had descended upon his face and decided to call it home. Permanently. And that wasn't good since Bilbo and the Company had a bit of a bad history with thunderstorms and the rocks and stones that they always seemed to involve nowadays. By the Green Lady, his head was truly starting to ache now. Not to mention his poor arm and ears. Pacifying Thorin was always a tiring job, even when Bilbo didn't feel like he'd been run over by a pack of blood-crazed wargs. This day just wasn't getting any better, it seemed. And goodness, now his left foot was hurting, too.

"It was three of the dwarves from the Orocarni Mountains, I think."

Everyone's brows furrowed since that covered a large number of dwarves. Both the Stonefoot and Blackfoot delegations were from the Orocarni Mountains, which meant that there were at least two hundred dwarves that could have been responsible for the hobbits' assault. And to Bilbo's eyes, most of them looked very similar and were difficult to tell apart at the best of times. He doubted he would even recognize them in court or on the training field.

"Which ones?"

"I don't know," Bilbo said. Aside from the beard ornaments, it had been too dark to clearly see the main assailant. He had no idea about their other two attackers. "Your fluffy beards all look the same in the dark at times. No offense."

Dwalin gave him a light pat of forgiveness on the belly. He could be gentle when it suited him.

"I don't think they knew who or what I was, either," Bilbo explained. He was fighting to keep down the nausea again. "They seemed genuinely baffled by Frodo's and my own appearance. Especially the ears."

Thorin's face became even more thunderous. "They thought you were an _elf_?"

Knowing where this was going, Bilbo just shrugged in reply. He really didn't want his husband to start ranting about the immense differences between elves and hobbits again. Thorin had already traumatized two guild masters, four guards, and a half-dozen nobles on various occasions when they'd foolishly implied that hobbits might have elven blood in their background. It hadn't been pretty.

"I think they might have—"

Several loud shouts and yelps came from the training hall doors, Currin and the badgers marching through with three dwarves struggling against them. Nori was right behind them, two of his minions shoving at the dwarves whenever they tried to escape the skin-changers' hold. Face contorted into a mess of fur and fangs, Currin threw her burden into the center of a nearby ring, snarling at the dwarf when he tried to charge her.

"Do not push my temper, dwarf. The King's hospitality is the only reason I haven't ripped your throat out yet."

"They stink of hobbit and fear," said one of the badgers. "Arrogance, too."

Her sister hissed. "And _Glyn_."

A group of older Blacklocks—all of them nobles from the looks of their robes and armor and beards—appeared through the doors as well. They were yelling and cursing at the skin-changers, accusing them of treason and inhospitality and being a bunch of senseless, inbred animals. The filthy words they threw at Currin were almost enough to make her transform and attack them outright. Not two minutes later, a group of Firebeard nobles joined them.

"These are not your halls," snarled Currin through her elongated teeth. "The judgment of your foolish offspring lies at the feet of Erebor's King, not you."

Nori nodded with a smirk. "The lady's right."

"Come," Thorin said. ""Perhaps a more physical view will assist your memory."

The Dwarf-King gestured to Dwalin and Glóin and they carefully helped Bilbo onto his feet. Once he was up, the hobbit felt like vomiting and it was several moments before he was able to give them a nod of assurance, though Dwalin didn't move from his place as a makeshift wall. Slowly, they hobbled over to the nearest sparring rings. A large swath of onlookers had gathered by now, their eyes flicking between their injured Consort, infuriated King, and the supposed attackers. No one dared get too close, though; a hissing and snarling skin-changer was an extremely effective barrier and form of crowd control.

"Tell me if you see them."

Bilbo took a deep breath and examined each of the many dwarves in the training hall. Aside from Erebor's usual batch of guards and archers, none seemed familiar or specific to the attack until finally Bilbo caught sight of the small group of dwarves that Currin and the badgers had dragged into the hall. One of them stood out. Dark hair, near-black armor, strange runes, ornate beads, thin lips—it was his attacker. Or, at least, the one who had done the most damage. The frantic finger pointing from Frodo and snarl from Glyn was a dead giveaway as well.

Bilbo pointed at the three dwarves. "That's them."

"Stay with him, Dwalin."

The uncontrolled anger in his husband's voice was so thick that Bilbo immediately shrunk back into Dwalin's offered side. The large dwarf flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles loudly, an obvious threat to anyone who tried to disregard the Consort's words or come any closer to him. A few of the older nobles who had come forward to speak to the King now backed off, warily watching the dwarves that encircled the hobbits. Several members of the King's Guard had also appeared, their bodies forming a protective around the royals and Company members. Every dwarf seemed to know what was about to happen...

The King was reaching for Orcrist when Bilbo quickly said, "It just wasn't a fair fight."

"Excuse me?"

"I was carrying a pot of stew and Frodo was with me," continued Bilbo. Even if his thoughts were heavy and jumbled, he desperately needed to prevent a slew of executions and diplomatic disasters here. "Attacking someone with their back turned and injuring them is considered a break of conduct and honor, correct? I would assume that dwarf law would have...something pertaining to such a situation."

He really hoped so.

Everyone in the hall remained silent for fear of the King's wrath. Thorin, in contrast, only turned to look at his smaller husband, expression as blank as slate. Of course, this might also have been due to Bilbo's brains being flipped one side over like the eggs that Dís and Dwalin enjoyed for breakfast so much. He sincerely hoped that there was no serious damage in there. Bilbo liked his brains.

Thick fingers reached out and gently touched Bilbo's reddened ears, wary of the pain that was no doubt radiating off of them. Thorin's dark eyes were soft as he surveyed the damage that had been done to his small husband. And then he finally nodded, face taking on an expression that Bilbo had come to dread. His sister-in-law and nephews were masters of that expression, too. It always meant trouble and headaches for the foreseeable future.

"As you wish, âzyungel." The King very gently bumped their foreheads, picked up Orcrist and Deathless, and stepped onto the ring. "Lords Fifnir, Gronin, and Rukuhl! Step forward!"

The hobbit winced as he was placed on one of the benches lining the practice ring, his ribs aching from the jostling and clumsiness of too-large dwarf hands. Glóin sat on his right side, Dwalin standing to his left, both of them looking like stone sentinels in their effort to intimidate the foreign dwarves around them. Glóril was seated just behind him with Frodo tucked safely in her arms and Glyn right against her side, dark eyes glinting with a malicious glee that her nephew had evidently inherited from her. Nori's minions had disappeared again, but Bilbo knew that they were likely still in the hall, slinking around and watching the nobles for any sign of trouble.

"Lords Fifnir and Rukuhl of the Blacklocks. Lord Gronin of the Firebeards. Please step forward. I will not repeat myself again."

Bilbo's husband stood in the center of the nearest ring, Orcrist and Deathless clenched loosely in his hands. Unlike several minutes prior, Thorin's face was now a stoic mask, not a single trace of emotion reflecting off of it. It was the look that he usually assumed before hunting down a pack of wargs or orcs. Or speaking with Thranduil, although a thin layer of disgust usually lurked beneath that particular scowl-y face.

"Select your chosen weapons. Are you ready?"

The three dwarves glanced between each other. It was the blond-haired Gronin who asked, "All three of us, Your Highness?"

"Did I specify?

"No..."

"Then all three of you should prepare yourselves," said Thorin. He motioned for them to move into position before him. "Now, are you ready?"

"Ready, Your Highness," said all three dwarves as they lowered their helmets.

Without any further warning, Thorin unleashed an attack on the three lords the likes of which Bilbo had rarely seen outside the battlefield. He easily dodged Gronin's strike from the left, maneuvering his body to the right while smacking Rukuhl in the head with Deathless. Thorin's swift reflexes, brute strength, and hard-earned experience made it almost impossible for the younger dwarves to hit him, their weapons constantly missing the tall dwarf by a hair's breadth. This lasted for half a minute before one blow of Thorin's followed another, and then another, and then another, a sharp strike from the left nearly cleaving Fifnir's shield in two while a particularly brutal head strike knocked Gronin's helmet across the ring. A few of the onlookers groaned in sympathy when the young dwarf's nose cracked under Thorin's elbow, the King's attacks far too fast for an unperfected parry or feint to withstand.

Glóin snorted. "A vengeful Thorin is never a pleasant sight."

"It's looking quite pleasant from this angle," laughed Nori from his spot at the top of the stands. "I have my coin on at least one concussion."

Bilbo could hear the clink of coins behind him. Dwarves...

The first dwarf to be defeated was Rukuhl, who made the mistake of leaving his flank open to Thorin's line of vision. Within less than a second, the King had kneed Gronin in the stomach and rolled across his hunched over back, the blunt side of Deathless slamming straight into Rukuhl's side while Orcrist collided with his head. Before Gronin could recover from the previous blow, Thorin had turned around and planted a hard kick right into his head as well. Both dwarves dropped to the ground like a sack of Farmer Maggot's potatoes.

"Someone's feeling like a show-off," Dwalin observed, sounding quite pleased about it. "I'm surprised he can still move like that in his _old_ age."

"He moves just fine," said Bilbo with a sniff. "I can assure you of that."

With the other two dwarves felled, Fifnir was a sitting duck to the remainders of Thorin's vengeful rage. The dwarf had been the one that Frodo specifically pointed to, so it wasn't surprising when Thorin's face shifted—for several short seconds, at least—into a cruel sneer. It only took a few more blows before Fifnir lost his shield, axe desperately trying to parry each strike that Erebor's King rained down upon him. Ten seconds later, Thorin had the Blacklock on his back on the ground, sword hovering less than an inch from Fifnir's unprotected neck.

"Do you submit, or should I take retribution now?

"I submit, Your Highness." Fifnir looked thoroughly terrified. "I submit.

When Thorin withdrew Orcrist and refused to assist Fifnir or the other two groaning dwarves, a murmur went up from the assembled dwarves and the few visiting northmen that were training in the hall. Thorin sheathed Orcrist and gestured to Currin to come forward into the ring. The King Under the Mountain stood with folded arms, watching as the female skin-changer stepped forward, golden eyes narrowed in a way that spoke of maimed limbs and torn throats. Bilbo and the children were positioned in clear sight of the dwarves.

"We have an important matter to discuss, my Lords. And I would suggest your kin control themselves." The King glared at several Blacklocks, their shouts of outrage drawing snarls from the skin-changers that stood around them. "My Consort, Bilbo Baggins; my nephew, Frodo; and Sister Currin's cousin, Glyn; were all attacked by you three not even one hour past. You abused your dwarven birth, larger girth, and superior age to injure them. I do not tolerate such cruel and unlawful actions in my kingdom. And my people don't appreciate the abuse of children—no matter their race or lineage—within this realm. "

"Your Highness, the passage was dark and none of us knew who or what he was," said Fifnir. "It's only fitting, due to our training, that we respond in defense of ourselves."

"He speaks the truth, Your Highness," said Gronin. His mouth was bloody and his nose surely broken. "We never meant offense. And he took us by surprise."

"Aye, Bilbo does tend to appear from out of nowhere at times. It's a rare gift that he and his hobbit brethren possess." Thorin was standing directly in front of the dwarves now, Orcrist still held in his right hand. "However, that does not explain your reaction to the skin-changer pup. There are well over two dozen of his kin running around my mountain at any given time. I _know_ that you've seen them before."

Fifnir looked at the ground. "The boy's non-dwarven features took us by—"

"The fact that Glyn is not a dwarf should make no difference in how you treat a citizen or guest of Erebor. The skin-changers have long proven their loyalty to Erebor as allies, something that you and your kin have yet to accomplish. And Bilbo is a member of the royal household, and he is to be treated with the same respect that you would afford to my sister or nephews. Perhaps even more due to his status as my spouse."

"We understand, Your Highness."

"And I reiterate: the fact that any of them are not dwarves makes no difference. In Erebor, behavior such as yours could cost us a valuable alliance with the men of Dale or the skin-changers of the North. And Bilbo is Erebor's most effective diplomat and my most trusted advisor." Thorin loomed over the dwarves. "Do not think me so foolish as to have married an imbecile or someone I can't trust, rukhsul menu."

"Of course not, Your Highness."

Thorin gazed down upon the three dwarves with an imperious air, hook-like nose purposely raised so that he could glare at them in the most disgusted manner possible. On a normal day, Bilbo would desire to smack that look off his smug face, but today was very different. Today, Bilbo was glad to have such a stubborn and self-important goob as his husband and greatest confidante.

"However," continued Thorin, "Let it never be said that Erebor does not follow the ancient laws of our forefathers. Your said it was not a fair fight, My Consort?"

Bilbo nodded. "I was blindsided and unprepared. Especially with Frodo in my company."

That last statement drew the eyes of nearly everyone in the hall, many of whom were very fond of their King's youngest nephew. It was not unusual to see Frodo sitting on the training hall's benches, cheering on his uncles, aunts, or cousins in their sparring matches. And, if it was a guard he was particularly fond of, Frodo would even cheer for them over his own kin.

"Then it's been decided. In four months time, here on Erebor's practice field, you and your accomplices will meet with Bilbo's chosen champions—and they may be whoever he wishes, as dwarven law in this situation does not apply to one of outside descent—and settle this as honorable dwarves. An honor duel of non-fatal means should suffice, I believe."

The attending scribe nodded in agreement and started to write up a contract. Oh, how dwarves loved their contracts.

"Sister Currin?"

"I must speak with my brothers and cousins first," said the wolf. Her canines were elongated and peaking over her lower lip, an obvious sign that her temper was barely in check. "We do not appreciate harm coming to our pups. And we have our own methods of handling disgraces such as this. However, I admit, that your method does seem to hold some merit."

"We can discuss you and your kin's decisions later this week," assured the King. "Will that be a sufficient amount of time?"

Currin nodded and Bilbo nearly snickered at the shocked noise Fifnir and his two companions made. It seemed that none of them had been expecting this particular outcome. A series of very excited murmurs could be heard engulfing the hall. Dwalin just cracked his knuckles in the background. Again. And Currin was still glaring at the dwarves like they were a meal that she wouldn't mind ripping apart right this moment, champions and tradition and laws be damned.

Gronin looked horrified. "We couldn't possibly raise our swords against your—"

"Your Highness!" Fifnir said. "I am a noble of Var's Folk and a far more experienced combatant! It wouldn't be—"

"Ah, my Lords, it seems that you forget that Bilbo was also an esteemed member of my Company who took back the Lonely Mountain from Smaug. He is not as untrained or unfamiliar in the art of war as you might think. In fact, I have trained him myself. Do not allow his size or appearance to fool you." The King turned to Bilbo and his eyes were downright wicked. It reminded Bilbo of all the reasons he adored his husband so much. "Are the terms satisfactory to you, Bilbo?"

"Yes," said Bilbo. "I am willing to accept the terms that have been laid out."

"Very well, then. I will set the time and terms of combat when you have properly healed. In the meantime, my Lords, all three of you will conduct yourselves honorably and appropriately, and stay well away from Bilbo, Glyn, and the rest of their family and friends. And this applies to your own family and clan members as well. It'd be best for all to have some degree of separation between the effected parties, I think. Is that clear?"

"Aye, Your Highness."

Fifnir bowed, but his expression was dark and murderous as he limped away. Gronin and Rukuhl didn't look much happier, either.

"Well, that could have gone better," Bilbo said, watching his assailants go. "And since when are we allowed to choose our own champions for a duel of honor? I never heard anything about that before. And goodness, Dwalin, stop that! It sounds terrible!"

"You're a hobbit. The regular rules don't apply. It can be found in the ancient laws of our people. I do know how to read and research, âzyungel," Thorin said, his hand brushing through Bilbo's hair and very gently touching the tip of a reddened ear. "And I've done as much research as possible on all things pertaining to Frodo's and your own safety. And it appears that Óin has finally arrived. I must fetch the boys."

"Aren't you the least bit worried about what this could do to diplomatic relations?"

"Dwarven law, my dear Bilbo. Hobbits might be pacifistic, but our race prefers duels and grudge matches to settle disputes. The nobles cannot argue against such a challenge without losing face. And attacking the King's Consort is never a wise idea. They're lucky I didn't execute where they stood. I have that right."

"How barbaric. And ohhhh, my head..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I might have expanded on the fight scene. A lot. But what can I say, I love writing action scenes. Many reviewers have been requesting that I include more of the skin-changers as well, so expect to see more of them this time around. I'm usually quite wary about using OCs too much, but almost everyone seems to like these characters and the background that's been given to them. Things have also been fairly quiet over the last week, so fingers crossed that it stays this way. And yet again, my need for medical accuracy—concussions are horrible—rears it's ugly head. Rukhsul menu = son/daughter of an orc.
> 
> And for those who are asking me to read their stories, I've had a personal policy for several months now that I don't read hardly any fanfiction while writing my own, especially in the fandom I'm writing in. This keeps me from subconsciously using anything that I might have read in another story. So, yeah, I won't be able to read anyone else's stories. Sorry.


	3. Chapter III

"I'm not going back in there. You can't make me."

"Don't be such a baby," hissed a voice right outside of Bilbo's bedroom door. "He's half your size and half your weight. What's he gonna do?"

"He threw a boot at my head!"

"And you know he doesn't mean it, either. Óin said it'll take at least a week or so to wear off." There were a few scuffling sounds and then a thump on the door. "Would you knock it off! He's not going to bite you."

"You don't know that!"

Bilbo rolled his eyes at the not-so-quiet argument that his nephews were having, their voices easily carrying through the granite and into the bedchamber that had become his personal prison for the next few days or weeks. He couldn't even sit on the balcony or check on his garden without Óin popping in and wagging a finger right in Bilbo's face to intimidate him back to bed. Bilbo had tried to argue his case...

But then he'd ran into a wall.

Thorin had threatened to sit on him after that, so Bilbo had decided that being a good little hobbit was the wisest reaction right now and had remained in bed for the past four days. And by the Valar, was it ever boring! Reading was out of the question due to the dizziness that resulted from even a few minutes of looking at fine print, which also meant that paperwork was a no-go as well. He had tried to play conkers with the boys, but none of them ever seemed to go in the right direction. Kíli had tried to cheer him up and was willing to give his uncle some much-needed hugs until Bilbo had burst into tears, ranting and raving about Thorin's bad habits and how he always left his dirty socks right under the bed and never cleaned up after himself in the bathroom. Even eating was difficult since certain foods made him severely nauseous.

A quiet snuffle came from the bottom of the bed. Bilbo glanced down and watched as Glyn maneuvered himself into a more comfortable position, his movements sluggish due to the extensive bruising that lined the young boy's battered body. It hadn't taken long for Óin and Currin to discover that the moronic dwarves had roughed him up far more than they'd first believed. Glyn had transformed into his shifted state to heal more quickly, and his cousins had left him in the royal family's care while they were out patrolling the southern borders.

"Such a good lad," said Bilbo. "All of you are such good, fine lads."

He sniffled for a moment, eyes filling with tears for the twelfth times in half as many days. By Mahâl, he was such a horrible uncle! He'd thrown a boot at Kíli for trying to help him into the bathroom this morning, and then he'd started crying in the bathtub about Thorin's lack of affection in recent weeks. The soap in his eyes hadn't made Bilbo feel any better, either. Thankfully, Dori had been on Bilbo-sitting duty and had promptly stomped in, wrapped the weepy hobbit up in a fluffy towel, assisted him in dressing, and then tucked him in for yet another nap.

"I'm such a horrible person," Bilbo wept. "My mother would be so mad at me."

The despondent hobbit was blowing his nose into a handkerchief when two bodies were suddenly squishing him in from either side. A blob of blonde hair somehow made its way into Bilbo's mouth and they spent the next five minutes trying to keep Bilbo from choking to death. Glyn just snuffled in response, shimmying further down the big bed to escape the crazy dwarves that now occupied it.

"We're sorry, Uncle Bilbo, we still love you," said Kíli with a dramatic sob. "Having scrambled brains doesn't affect how we feel about you."

"Yeah, nice choice of words, nadadith."

Both dwarves just sat there for a half-hour, holding and cuddling their injured uncle and reassuring him that the forgetfulness and other symptoms would pass in the next few days. Fíli himself had suffered from a particularly awful concussion after the Battle of the Fives Armies, which had caused him to forget most of the events that had occurred directly before and after the battle. He had also been found wandering around the camp one night, a biscuit in one hand and a boar spear in the other. Unfortunately, he had also been bootless, so Fíli had spent the next day getting splinters picked out of his feet as well.

Definitely one of the more embarrassing moments in his life. And he didn't even remember it!

"Kíli, darling, you're kinda strangling me."

The young dwarf jumped back like he'd been struck. "Please don't throw another boot at me!"

Bilbo sighed. "I'm so sorry about that. I don't even know what came over me, to be honest. These past few days have been so strange and unpleasant. I'm sorry for my behavior and how difficult I've been, my dear boys."

"It's alright, Uncle Bilbo. We've seen plenty of dwarves with concussions before and it's never a pretty sight," said Fíli. "At least you haven't stripped naked and gone running down the hallways like Náli did a couple decades ago."

"Oh, Mahâl, that was hilarious!"

"Poor Náli even did a little dance for Dala and Amad when they were selling their wares at market." Fíli snickered at this, eyes misty with tears as he remembered the event. "I don't think I've ever seen Glóin so red before, especially after Náli started to fondle his beard."

Kíli shrugged. "It is a _very_ grand beard."

"Oh, I'm not denying that," said Fíli, "But you've gotta admit that Náli was a _little_ too enthusiastic with the whole humping debacle."

Glyn huffed in amusement, golden eyes open and watching the two dwarves with childish interest. He was much smaller than Currin in size and lighter in color with a medium brown coat and sparse patches of white along his stomach, paws, and muzzle. Kíli stretched out a foot and batted at the lad's twitching tail, bare toes pinching at the soft fur that covered it.

"You would have been so offended by the smells, Sir Fluffs-A-Lot," assured the younger prince. "Glóin still can't talk about the incident without sputtering and puffing like an angry rooster."

"Too bad Dala thinks it's the highlight of their marriage."

Bilbo listened to the brothers recount story after story as afternoon passed into evening. Dori eventually brought Frodo up to share dinner and supper with them, the little boy happily cuddling into Bilbo's side as they shared a few biscuits and carrot sticks. The oldest Ri brother had been taking care of Frodo every other day since the incident, which had provided a great deal of relief to Thorin and Dís as they attempted to keep up with the delegation schedules. Bilbo himself had been far too spacey and tired to care for Frodo during his immediate recovery, so the Company had all been doing their part to look after the royal family's youngest member. And, as usual, the return of Thorin from open court brought a shriek of delight from Frodo.

"How are you feeling?" was the first thing Thorin asked after putting Frodo and Glyn down to bed. "Do you need another heating pad for your shoulder?"

"No, I'm alright," said Bilbo with a yawn. "Dori made two of them before leaving. I think he's been taking lessons from Óin over the last couple years. He kept inspecting my eyes and the bandages around my foot."

"He's always been a mother-hen."

After giving Bilbo the prescribed tonics for his numerous injuries and headaches, Thorin went through his nightly ablutions and joined his husband in bed. The Dwarf-King had been woken several times by Óin over the last couple days, who had insisted that his patient be watched at all hours in case the concussion forced Bilbo into an endless sleep. Thorin had had to wake his husband every three hours on the hour, with the time lapse becoming longer as each day passed, always watchful of a possible change in Bilbo's condition. However, Óin had informed him earlier in the morning that it was probably safe for Bilbo to sleep through the night now.

"Thorin?"

"I thought you were asleep, umzam." The King set down the guild reports that he had been reading, eyes flicking down to the small form curled up along his right side. "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"No, it's not that," said Bilbo, teeth worrying his lower lip. "There's something I need to talk to you about. If you don't mind."

"Of course not."

"I've been thinking..." Bilbo paused then and gave Thorin a sidelong look. "Well, as much as I've been able to, what with the brain scrambling and all, but I've been thinking about the duel and the selection of my champions. Oh, and has Currin decided on a suitable punishment yet?"

"Not yet," said Thorin, and then an evil smile overtook his face. "I think she's using the suspense to torture them. Clever girl."

"Okay, well, I guess that, hmmm..."

Thorin took his husband's smaller hand and gave it a gentle, encouraging kiss. He could be so sweet sometimes. Or when he put his mind to it, at least.

"I'm still not sure exactly who I want to fight for me," Bilbo admitted. "Putting any of my friends or family in danger is something that I prefer not to think about. However, I have made a decision on one of them. And I think it'd be best if I represented myself. In the duel."

A sigh of immense frustration and anger immediately ripped itself from Thorin's throat. He had feared that this would be Bilbo's reaction. His husband had been trying so hard to prove himself to the dwarves—especially those not of Durin's line—that he had nearly run his health and safety into the ground. Thorin wholeheartedly accepted that his lovely, sweet, and very stubborn Consort wasn't a dwarf. He had married a hobbit, _not_ a dwarf. And he was well aware of that fact, despite what some people might think. Unfortunately, it didn't stop Bilbo from trying to be, on occasion, something he most definitely was not.

"You don't have to do this," said Thorin. "Our laws do not apply to non-dwarves, at least not when it comes to honor duels. And it is not at all uncommon for our womenfolk or infirm to choose a champion as well, although it's ridiculously inappropriate to challenge a woman to begin with."

"I'm neither a woman nor infirm," Bilbo snapped. "I'm a male hobbit and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."

Thorin held his tongue and valiantly tried to repress the protective instincts that were churning right beneath the surface. Or maybe slightly above, if his tightly clenched fists and deep breathing was to be taken as truth. The thought of Bilbo stepping into the arena and fighting a full-grown, vindictive dwarf was enough to turn Thorin's stomach, a feat that was quite hard to achieve. Thorin strongly considered locking Bilbo in their rooms for the next decade, but he also knew that upsetting his injured husband wouldn't get him anywhere, that was for damned sure.

"You are not in your right mind."

Bilbo smacked him right upside the head. "I might be recovering, but I can still think critically if it's necessary, Thorin Oakenshield. And I will represent myself, whether you like it or not."

"And if I forbid you?"

"Then I will have lost my greatest ally in this barbaric fiasco," said Bilbo with a sigh. "And I won't be able to guarantee the continued production of chocolate and raspberry mousse east of the Misty Mountains."

"Now that's hitting below the belt."

Bilbo looked down at that particular spot of his husband. "Well, now that you mention below the belt..."

The King sighed in exasperation and pulled Bilbo against his side. Thorin knew that his husband took great pride in his official responsibilities and accomplishments as Consort Under the Mountain, especially in regards to Dale's sustainable farmlands and Erebor's improved relations with both Mirkwood and Dorwinion. Even their most recent treaties and trade agreements with Dyr, Lotan, Nûrad, Relmether, and the tribes of the Forodwaith were a direct result of Bilbo's diplomatic efforts. It was a well-known fact in Erebor that their Consort was responsible for securing nearly all of their foreign trade and food supplies, especially with the northmen, elves, and Easterlings. And there was no mistaking that Bilbo was a formidable force behind the Lonely Mountain's throne.

"You're not going to give up on this, are you?"

After taking his husband's hand and giving it a loving kiss, Bilbo whispered, "No. They _hurt_ my Frodo. And I'm going to make them pay for it."

"Then I will train you myself," conceded Thorin, eyes closed and face twisted into a pained expression. "Once you're cleared by Óin, of course. He'd have my jewels if you even tried to poke Dwalin before he said so. Have you decided on your two champions yet?"

"I'm still thinking on it," said Bilbo. "And yes, I know that I'm really no match for Fifnir, even with his dreadful level of skill."

"You doubt yourself too much, âzyungel," said Thorin as he snuck in a quick kiss to Bilbo's lips. "But rest assured, when I'm through with you, umzam, you will be ready. A fearsome hobbit who could face down the Dark One himself. After all, what's a dwarf compared to a big, fat dragon?"

"Now you're just buttering up."

In the end, it took two months and three weeks for Bilbo's swollen shoulder, cracked ribs, and busted foot to finally stop aching all the time. Óin had hemmed and hawed for several hours over it, as picky as ever with the health of his hobbit-y patient. After the second month, Thorin had made his Consort report to the training hall every morning to watch Dwalin and his favorite guards spar and practice and use each other as punching bags. Bilbo didn't see the appeal at all.

"You must treat the sword as an extension of your own arm," said Thorin as he beat the snot out of an unfortunate guard. "Allow it to flow outwards and move as if it's your own limb. None of that swinging around like you've done with Sting. It needs to flow..."

"Well, the only weapon that fits that description for me is a frying pan," said Bilbo. "And I'm not allowed to use one of those, right?"

Thorin's frown was answer enough.

It would be no surprise to anyone in Erebor or Ered Luin that Thorin was a sight to behold on the battlefield. He had been trained since birth to fight all manner of despicable creatures and although Bilbo felt bad for thinking it, he truly did enjoy watching his husband defeat every opponent who stepped into the ring with him. It was ridiculously appealing and Bilbo had to remind himself that getting worked up in public was terribly inappropriate, no matter how lovely Thorin's rippling biceps, muscular backside, and sweaty hair looked. Those kinds of thoughts always landed him in a heap of trouble or embarrassment.

And he really didn't need Nori poking fun at him again.

Plus, for the next month or so, Bilbo had no Consort-y duties to take away from observing Thorin's form in the arena. He had actually been ordered to watch Thorin work out and ignore everything else, so there was no harm in appreciating such a wondrous sight, right? No crop rotations to discuss with Bard's farmers, no Mirkwood missives to censure rude words from, no guild masters to pacify with promises of reconstruction or increased budgets or extra supplies from the southern cities...

"What are you doing?" Thorin asked when the hobbit tried to look over the new trade reports from Lotan. "Dwalin, show him the feint again. No, not that one, _that_ one. I said no work, Bilbo, so pay attention!"

No kitchen staff to mediate complaints or oversee provisions for, no disputes between families bickering over housing arrangements in the lower halls, no reports from Prince Bain in Esgaroth about the next shipment of peppers or wheat or cotton or barley from Dorwinion, and no dragging silly guards to the healers, who were all too busy trying to outdo one another in their demonstrations right now...

"I will sic Dwalin on you," threatened Thorin, eyes glaring down at the papers in Bilbo's hands. "Now watch Glóril's feet. See how she moves so easily?"

No nephews to intercept from sneaking off to Dale to exchange an excessive amount of coins for an elven-crafted bow, no need to bicker with the Royal Council about the granaries and how they truly needed to stock up in case of future sieges, and definitely no need to deal with Thranduil's and Thorin's latest feud, which was always a problem for several months after their latest treaty signings.

"Stop reading that," Thorin snapped, nose wrinkling in disgust when he saw who the sender was. "Fíli! Come over here and perform that parry again."

Bilbo did exactly what he was told and enjoyed the glorious sight of Thorin being rugged and so very kingly and so deliciously sweaty. Those were some of the most pleasant days of his life and Bilbo was not ashamed of the red flush that creeped into his cheeks every afternoon. He had that dwarf's ring on his finger and an Arkenstone bead in his hair. He was allowed to look as much as he wanted, thank you very much.

Well, except for when Frodo was there. Ogling one's husband was frowned upon when a child was in the same room. And Frodo was at that awful age where he questioned _everything_. It was exhausting.

At the end of the second week of Bilbo's combat observations, the hobbit finally said, "Óin has cleared me for training tomorrow. We'll just have to be careful with my foot. It should be just fine, but Óin's given me a wrap to put on it. Personally, I think he's just being paranoid. All of those extra tonics were unnecessary and I still stand by that statement, too."

"Dwalin will be thrilled. He's itching to see what proper training could do to you."

"That's reassuring."

"And I do believe that Currin's punishment will be even more devious than your own," said Thorin. He had that dreadful look on his face again. "She's been intimidating the potential opponents at every turn and dark corner. There have been several complaints about the badgers, too."

"You still haven't told me what she has planned, my dear."

Thorin's smirk was downright evil. "That's for me to know, and for you to find out."

"If you say so," Bilbo said with a smile. "I'm going to check on Frodo before turning in. He's been learning some new carving skills with Donel and I think he wants to show them off to someone."

"Bofur's doing, I presume?"

"I think it might be Bifur's doing this time around," said Bilbo. "He's been rather upbeat the past few days. Must've been the new shipment of ponies and goats from Dale. Princess Sigrid snuck a lovely gelding in just for him. From what I've heard, he's a real beauty."

"Well, then you'd better hurry," warned Thorin with a tiny smirk. "You've got training in the morning, my dear hobbit. We wouldn't want you to be too tired to wield that letter-opener of yours."

"I'd never dream of it, your Royal Gruffness."

On the first day of official training, Bilbo collapsed on the ground twice. He awoke each time to Dwalin and his husband standing right over him, their eyebrows furrowing and unfurrowing in that silent communication thing-y that they always seemed to use when in public. Bilbo was usually caught between finding it amusing or annoying. He settled for annoying right now.

Frodo sat in the stands, Donel and Dwina on either side of him. From the looks of it, Hania had supplied them with a large batch of honey cakes to tide them over until dinner or supper. And by Mahâl, did Bilbo ever wish that he could be over there with them. He'd even be willing to help them with their arithmetic at this point.

"This way, Uncle Bilbo, use your left arm to maneuver it over here," said Fíli, pointing out the numerous flaws in Bilbo's stance. "You've got to move your feet more. Like this. And you can't leave your left flank open like that, either."

Flaws seemed to be the only things that Bilbo could get right in arena combat. How ironic...

And since Bilbo was obsessing over these flaws, he didn't see the blow that Fíli threw from the left and instead of blocking it with his nifty little shield, Bilbo blocked it with his head. Yeah, definitely not one of his better moments. The shield did have a purpose, after all. And he needed to learn to _use_ it.

"I killed Uncle Bilbo!"

Not again, were his last thoughts this time around...

Bilbo blinked his eyes open a few minutes—or what he thought was a few minutes, who knew anymore?—later to see Thorin and Fíli hovering like a pair of demented turkey vultures. He had never realized how humiliating it was to be knocked unconscious for the whole world to see and laugh about. Not that anybody was laughing out loud since Thorin would have probably assigned them to patrol duty with Currin if he'd heard them. But yes, Bilbo could now very clearly see why hobbits avoided warfare at all costs.

It was all so clear now.

"Uncle Bilbo wasn't supposed to do that, was he?" asked Frodo from the stands. "Should he be drooling like that?"

"No, not really."

To say that Bilbo wasn't ready for his next clash with Dwalin would be an understatement. He landed on his behind about ten seconds later, internally wishing that he could just poison his opponents and be done with it. That option was looking more and more appealing with each passing minute. No one would suspect the honey cakes. Or the Dorwinion wine.

Or the hobbit.

"Do you want some of my apple slices, Uncle Bilbo?" asked Frodo when the older hobbit collapsed on a bench. "Uncle Dori gave me some honey, too. Where'd it go, Dwina?"

Sweet Dwina, the glorious child that she was, dunked the slices and handed them to Bilbo. "You should attack Mister Dwalin from the lower right. He swings his axe at head level and you're small enough to move underneath of it."

"I just might try that," said Bilbo. He was ravenously hungry now. "You're a brilliant child, Dwina, did you know that?"

She just handed him another apple slice and glared behind them.

Bilbo could feel the eyes of his opponents and the other dwarves on him at all times in the training hall. He knew that many of them craved Erebor's immense power and wealth; he'd heard plenty of different dwarves from different clans speaking in whispers about how important it was that this or that dwarf from this or that clan establish a lasting alliance with the royal family of Erebor. Particularly, the King and his immediate family, which in their minds, consisted only of Dís, Fíli, and Kíli. Most of Erebor's dwarves had come to accept their hobbit-y Consort and his nephew, but there was still a significant minority who believed that such a union between Longbeard and non-dwarf was disgraceful. And a majority of the non-Durin clans—most specifically the Ironfists and Blacklocks—seemed to agree with them.

Due to this animosity, Bilbo and Frodo were never left alone anymore. The Incident, as the dwarves had come to call it, had made the citizens of Erebor slightly paranoid and extra cautious when around any of the visiting delegates and their families. It was no secret that several of the foreign lords and ladies would love to marry one of the princes or even the King Under the Mountain himself. And despite what men and elves might say, the average Ereborian dwarf was certainly _not_ thrilled at the prospect of an outsider killing Bilbo on their home soil. So, as Nori pointed out to them, if The Incident had been a deliberate yet sloppy attempt at royal assassination, it had most definitely backfired on the culprits and their bosses.

The Longbeards of Erebor and the city's other native clans were, by and large, behind Bilbo Baggins and his Champions in their duels against the Consort's assailants. To say that the city's resident spymaster was pleased by this outcome would've been an understatement. He'd practically skipped out of Thorin's office after delivering his report. Dwalin had looked thoroughly disturbed.

"Keep your eyes off your feet," sighed Thorin with a great deal of frustration, "Otherwise, you'll keep getting knocked off of them."

Bilbo huffed and puffed. "That's so helpful."

"You've been knocked out of the ring five times today," said the King. "If you don't watch your opponent, you'll be skewered within seconds."

"This is impossible."

However, by the end of the day, Bilbo's muscles were accustomed enough to the repetition that he was able to strike through Glóril's defenses and land a solid hit on her left flank. It was a moment of immense pride for an exhausted Bilbo. Fighting wargs and orcs—who were either wild animals or pathetically untrained—was one thing; but striking a warrior-class dwarf? That actually took some talent.

"See!" cheered Frodo. "I told you he'd eventually catch on."

Donel shrugged. "He'll have to hit more than her butt to beat the snot out of that Blacklock."

"He'll do it. Just watch."

Unfortunately, Bilbo's little moment of smiley pride caused him to underestimate Glóril's counterattack and he promptly went flying back into the stands. The sight of Frodo's feet was the last thing he remembered before waking up an hour later with Thorin and Frodo crouched beside him. Bilbo didn't know if he wanted to kiss or punch him in the face. The ringing made things rather confusing. And he was referring to Thorin, of course.

Frodo always deserved kisses. And maybe a scolding from time to time, if the situation called for it.

"How many of me are there, Uncle Bilbo?"

"That's a mean trick to try and play on a downed hobbit, my boy," wheezed Bilbo a few seconds later. "Prim only had one of you. That's it. No more."

Thorin patted his hand. "I think that's enough for today."

"I've got some juice for you, Uncle Bilbo." The faunt proudly held out the large cup. "Uncle Bombur made it specially for you."

"That dwarf is an angel."

To be frank, Bilbo thought that it had been enough hours ago—or perhaps days, but he wasn't exactly all up there in his head at the moment—and the concerned look on Thorin's face evidently meant that he agreed with him. Bilbo grunted and then flopped back on the ground, pointedly ignoring the experimental pokes that Donel and Frodo kept giving to his feet and hands. If he looked that dead, then it was definitely time to call it quits for the day. Fortunately, Dwalin picked Bilbo up and allowed Thorin to look him over.

"Aye, definitely done. You look dreadful," Thorin said, and Bilbo repressed the violent urge to vomit at his feet. "Now, off to open court."

"Sorry, but you're by yourself today. I'll just fall asleep on the throne."

"Very well. Fíli, come!"

By the time he returned to their chambers that night, Bilbo simply collapsed onto their bed and fell asleep without even bathing. Balms and ointments for his aches and pains were the furthest thing from Bilbo's mind at that moment. He didn't even feel Thorin come to bed.

On the eighth day, he practiced with Fíli and attempted to keep up with his nephew's movements, which was much easier said than done. Fíli made sure he took frequent water breaks, snuck him small snacks or crackers, and didn't come at him with near as much force as the others. It was four hours in when Thorin put his foot down and started railing on Fíli about not properly preparing Bilbo for combat. His oldest nephew had tried to argue in his defense, but one glare from Thorin had been enough to shut Fíli up for the better part of an hour.

"You know how difficult these techniques are," Thorin said to their nephew. "They took you and your brother over a decade to learn, if I recall correctly."

"And that doesn't mean anything. You can't just expect him to learn or fight like a dwarf." Fíli's face was mutinous and more than a little overprotective, his fingers massaging a horrible knot out of Bilbo's neck while tossing a throwing knife in his unoccupied hand. "Even with Sting, Uncle Bilbo just doesn't have the arm length to execute them correctly against a dwarf or a man."

"Then you'll just have to adjust your style of teaching to his body size," said the King. "You know how important this is and I expect you to teach him each of the techniques, no matter how awkward they may be for you. Or do you want your uncle to be maimed in the arena?"

"Of course not! How dare you even—"

"Then teach him proper form and technique, Fíli! And don't make me repeat myself again."

From that point on, Fíli was as brutal to train with as Dwalin and Thorin. It was an interesting and quite unpleasant experience, being trounced by his oldest nephew was. He never realized just how violent Erebor's Crown Prince could be in the throes of battle. Bilbo wondered if this was how an orc felt right before a blond blob of screaming wrath descended upon it. He didn't like being wary of his own beloved nephew.

"Just put me out of my misery," Bilbo lamented. "Deceiving a dragon was easier than this ridiculous malarkey."

"Sorry, Uncle Bilbo," said his oldest nephew. Fíli had had to pick him up and place Bilbo back on his feet at least a dozen times. "We need you to beat the snot out of that stupid elf-lover, and getting to that point involves beating the snot out of you, I'm afraid."

"I miss Bag End. And my tomatoes."

Fíli just patted his uncle on the shoulder and attempted to teach him how to effectively parry a sword or axe that was larger than his own. It only took five minutes for Bilbo to land on his back again. And he might've lost some hair on his feet, too.

"I need a holiday," he lamented again. "And preferably one _without_ dwarves."

"You broke Uncle Bilbo," accused Frodo. "Bad Fíli!"

"Blame Uncle Thorin!"

The next couple days were just as brutal. Every inch of Bilbo's body was sore and achy and even the basic parries that Dwalin was going over with him were excruciating. His limbs just couldn't withstand the same training level as dwarves and Thorin finally seemed to realize this after a few days. The Dwarf-King even carried Bilbo back to their bedchambers when nobody was watching. Bilbo would've hugged him if he hadn't felt so frustrated by the whole experience. Hobbits truly weren't made for the battlefield.

"Bilbo," the King said when he took a good look at all of his husband's bruises, "I think it might be time for a long soak with some of Óin's balms and bath salts. It will help with the pain."

And Bilbo had done just that, reveling in the amazing warmth and grogginess that a simple bath could cause. He probably would have fallen asleep and drowned if Thorin had not stayed with him the whole time. Most of his bruises were from landing face down in the dirt when Dwalin threw the hobbit over his left shoulder. The large dwarf was still getting used to sparring with someone so tiny, which tended to result in Bilbo flying all over the place. Frodo had even given Bilbo an experimental poke, just to make sure he was alive and all. The faunt's presence was also a good reminder of what Bilbo was fighting for, too.

"I think you killed him, Uncle Thorin."

"He'll survive."

However, by the fourteenth day, Bilbo was getting a little bit better at blocking and counterattacking. His arms and legs at least moved of their own accord now and didn't land him on his backside quite as much. And considering how he'd started, that was a massive improvement. Bilbo wouldn't be warrior material any time soon, or perhaps ever in his lifetime, but he could at least defend himself in the arena now. And smack Dwalin on the shoulder from time to time, even if the giant dwarf sent him sailing through the air moments later.

But it was certainly better than nothing.

"You've done amazing so far, umzam," said the Dwarf-King as Bilbo attempted to walk in a straight line and not run into the pillars that bordered the walls. "And I think Dwalin may have a new respect for hobbits, too."

Bilbo snorted. "I saved his hairy behind from being torched by a dragon. He better respect my hobbit-y wiles."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it sounds sadistic, but concussed patients are some of the most interesting since you never know how they're going to react. I even had a bedpan thrown at me once! And I'm basing a large chunk of Bilbo's routine off of the hell I went through in self-defense and combative weapons training. I never used a sword, of course, just knives, but the overall regimen is very similar and straightforward. I literally felt like my body was falling apart for several weeks and I was in very good shape to begin with. So, for poor Bilbo... Ouch.
> 
> And holy shit, this thing's getting long!


	4. Chapter IV

When Thorin first brought it up after luncheon, Bilbo assumed that he was joking. The King Under the Mountain was far more playful than the general populace knew, and it was quite clear that Fíli and Kíli had not inherited all of their mischievous ways from their mother or deceased father. His husband had come stomping past Bilbo's prize tomato patch, face a bizarre clash between genuine mirth and ill-concealed annoyance, before pulling the hobbit up into a kiss that was three days coming. Never one to complain about open affection from his stubbornly stoic husband, Bilbo relished the kiss and was quite thankful when Thorin managed to avoid all of the bruises that lined his lower back from training.

Smiling down at the hobbit, Thorin said, "Looks like the King of Erebor will have an escort in time for the feast, after all."

"Excuse me?" Bilbo stepped back with a frown. "And what feast is this?"

Bilbo's experience as an escort for visiting dwarven delegations was still quite limited. Most of the emissaries that had visited them since Erebor's reclamation had been local and non-dwarven: the men of Dale, Dyr, Lotan, and Dorwinion, the elves of Mirkwood, and the skin-changer packs of Beorn and Mother Nymeria. There had been a couple diplomats and caravans from the Blue Mountains—all of Firebeard or Broadbeam extraction—but none of them had been official delegations. The visitors currently residing in the Lonely Mountain were a new breed of dwarves that Bilbo had never encountered before: Blacklocks, Stonefoots, and a whole slew of nobles from the Blue Mountains. He was a little relieved by the distinct lack of Ironfists, but Bilbo highly doubted that dwarven nobles would be impressed by the King's short and round Consort, no matter how intimidated they were of his dragon-riddling titles.

"It's just a little celebration that Balin and Dís thought would be appropriate for the current negotiations."

"Oh, of course, something like this positively stinks of Balin's and your sister's influence," said Bilbo. He turned back to his tomatoes with a huff. "I refuse to take part in your sister's intimidation shenanigans, Thorin Oakenshield. They never end well, I tell you. Gimli almost lost his beard at the last feast she planned, since insulting Legolas and his father's moose is never a good idea."

"It's just a celebratory feast with some dancing, âzyungel." Thorin was now massaging his shoulders in _just_ the right way. Evil grub-digger. "You're a wonderful dancer and a supreme chef in your own right, of course, but you know the nobility—only interested in last age's innovations. You might want to pick up a few for the feast and show some of them just how talented a hobbit can really be."

An elven delegation might have been preferable, no matter the beard-threatening.

"I wasn't aware," Bilbo said at length, eyebrows raised to their height, "That there was an actual _ball_ being held as a part of this...whatever this is we're having in the mountain."

"There's always a ball held halfway through major dwarven negotiations. It's an ancient tradition."

Bilbo snorted. "Just like the dueling. Is there anything else you'd like to tell me about? Because if some dwarf lady challenges my marriage to you and that's legal and you haven't told me about it, then you're going to rue the day you knocked on my round, green door, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Ohhhhhh! Uncle Thorin's in trouble..."

"He used his full name!"

Neither of them paid any attention to the snickering children who were hiding behind the hobbit's grape vines. Frodo and Donel had been playing dungeons and dragons while Bilbo properly tended to his gardens for the first time in weeks, their eyes focused solely on the new batch of toys that Bifur and Bofur had made for them last week. And then Bilbo's lovely husband had arrived...

"And there's always an invitation requesting the presence of the King Under the Mountain himself. What there usually isn't is a handsome hobbit on his arm."

"Perhaps your handsome hobbit doesn't wish to be paraded around the Gallery of Kings," suggested Bilbo, fingers snipping several dead vines and brown leaves from his precious tomatoes. "After all, said handsome hobbit is little more than a black and blue pulp at the moment."

"Not paraded—danced. Surely, I'll make a better partner than the lasses who used to step on your feet at the Party Tree?"

"I'll have you know that most hobbit lasses are excellent dancers." Bilbo waved his clippers in the dwarf's face. "Poor Daisy Cotton, bless her sweet heart, just had no sense of balance or sensible coordination. I don't know whether you recognize it when it isn't your own, but when I said I danced, that was sarcasm. I don't dance dwarven dances. All of you metal-booted ruffians are a menace to this poor hobbit's toes."

A pleased smirk lit up Thorin's face. "Would you like to learn?"

"I'm already learning how to _fight_ and now you want me to learn to dance like a dwarf? Are you forgetting the fact that Dís and your lovely nephews spent two weeks trying to teach me those very same dances last year? My toes still haven't recovered from that particular trauma!"

"And I distinctly remember warning you about Kíli's footwork."

Bilbo sighed. "In case you haven't noticed, my dear husband, but I'm tired. If my arms or legs could physically fall off, they would be laying somewhere down in the training halls, probably getting trampled by Dwalin and his half-crazed guards. I really, really, _really_ need a day off to rest and eat and just generally act like a hobbit. Living on five meals a day just isn't cutting it anymore."

"You haven't been eating seven?" Thorin looked disturbed by this fact. "Why?"

"Because I don't have the time to eat!" snapped Bilbo, his back aching when he stood up from inspecting his green beans and cabbages. "By the Green Lady, I think my poor back is about to fall apart! You dwarves are driving me crazy!"

Thorin didn't so much as flinch when the hobbit collapsed against his chest, words and complaints and curses muffled by the Dwarf-King's furred surcoat and elaborate robes. Deciding that now wasn't the time to argue or criticize, Thorin just let his husband continue to gripe and groan into his chest for a few more minutes, shrugging his shoulders when Frodo and Donel emerged to investigate the situation.

"Did you break Uncle Bilbo again?" asked Frodo with a suspicious look.

"He sounds like my amad when she's just had a row with Adad." Donel nodded in a sagely fashion. "They're always bickering over something and then stuff like this happens."

"Your uncle's perfectly fine," assured Thorin. "He's just a little overwhelmed at the moment."

Frodo still looked more than a little suspicious, but the faunt and dwarfling wandered back to their play spot after a few more moments of Bilbo ranting into Thorin's chest. The King waited for both of them to be out of sight, always wary of them repeating what they'd heard to their other friends. It wasn't that Thorin didn't trust his youngest nephew and Donel, it was simply that he didn't want Frodo knowing too much about adult matters in the mountain. Frodo would become a constant target if that was the case. And they'd already had a near-miss in recent days.

He was still waiting for Nori's newest findings on The Incident. The spymaster had been doing some extra snooping at Thorin's request.

"I know these past few weeks have been hard on you, sanghivasha, and all of this would have been much easier if I'd just taken their heads, but I'd like to share something with my husband right now." Thorin's little smirk never faltered and he reached for Bilbo's left hand. "May I?"

With an air of intense suspicion, Bilbo lifted his hand and laid it in Thorin's. "If you insist."

Thorin shooed the boys away to the bedroom and promised that the garden would be private for the rest of the afternoon. "No one but me will see your stumbling," he told the hobbit. "And I won't laugh. Much."

In the same room where they would sit and collect their food, they put aside Thorin's ceremonial robes, and Bilbo retied the red favor of the King around his wrist. Once it would have discomfited him, to have his arms held by the calloused hands of a great dwarven warrior and king—perhaps it would still have discomfited him, were he anywhere but the Lonely Mountain. But Thorin left little time for reflection. And Bilbo did trust his husband, no matter the griping and whining that he had just employed.

Thorin demonstrated the steps and, just like Dís before him, made them look ridiculously easy— _left, right, twirl, left, right, dip, and twirl_. He kicked the air with a King's grace and a King's aplomb. Thorin urged Bilbo to follow. The hobbit just stared at his husband's steel-toed boots with a raised eyebrow. He didn't trust those things in the slightest.

"You have the legs for it," he said. "Don't be afraid to show them off."

"I am not in the habit of _showing off_ ," said Bilbo, landing from a leap, toes curling away from Thorin's boots. "However, I am in the habit of protecting my toes. They're the only ones I shall ever receive in this life. And I'm quite fond of them, I'll have you know."

"Says the hobbit who deceived a fire drake in his own lair."

"Not by choice," he snapped. "Avoiding Smaug had been at the top of my priority list, but the blasted wyrm just had to notice a single cup missing from his hoard. I still don't see what the appeal is, either. Too heavy and shiny, in my opinion."

"It _was_ a lovely cup."

"And then you just had to come bumbling along, all intent on swimming through a sea of gold," Bilbo reminded him. "I should've just shoved you off the platform, now that I think about it. You and Smaug could've bickered over what stone was prettier than the next one, which all looked the bloody same back then and still do now, if you ask me."

"Speaking with a fat slug isn't my idea of an enjoyable afternoon."

"Well, you should've thought of that before charging into a treasury that housed a giant, narcissistic dragon," said Bilbo. He hopped over Thorin's foot when it glided past his toes. "And now you're trying to convince a disgruntled hobbit to put himself out in the open yet again."

"I know," Thorin conceded, hands raised in surrender. "I know. But you can throw yourself into the dances of the Shire. Why not throw yourself into ours as well?"

"Thank you for stepping on my foot."

"Oops."

The hobbit just gave his husband an exasperated glare. It was not that Bilbo didn't enjoy dancing. On the contrary, he enjoyed it very much and always relished the dances he'd partaken in during Lithe, Yule, and the many birthday parties that were held under the Shire's Party Trees. It had been Belladonna herself who had taught Bilbo all of his favorite dances, which he had then used to win many a contest against his Took and Brandybuck cousins. However, dwarven dancing was _much_ different than hobbit dancing, mostly due to the restrictive clothes that were involved. And, of course, the Eru-forsaken _boots_.

"Dáin will be arriving later this evening."

And Bilbo tripped over his own two feet at this admission. "What?! Oh, you've got to be joking! I simply cannot deal with your cousin right now."

Thorin burst into laughter. "And why ever not, my hobbit?"

"Well, for one, he always insists on perusing my garden and mushroom patches," Bilbo replied in the midst of a leap, "And a good dozen of my tomatoes, pears, and apples go missing every time he visits. Second, have you ever had to sit next to him at a feast? My ribs won't survive another hug from him!"

"He is a rather jolly fellow when intoxicated. Or stuffed full of boar meat. Or just existing, in general."

"That's a nice way of putting it."

The King snorted. "At least he doesn't call you... _little bunny_."

"Please, don't..."

"It's a rather apt name," said Thorin with a wide grin. "And you certainly live up to it some nights."

"You dwarves are simply awful."

"No, I'm simply aware of the fact that my husband is insatiable when he's in a particular mood," said Thorin. He effortlessly lifted Bilbo up and through the air before gently placing him back down with a half-twist. "And my poor ol' back might not be able to sustain such rigorous demands in the near future."

Bilbo sniffed. "It's not my fault that your dwarven highness can't keep up with my simple needs."

"I'm insulted."

"As you should be. We might need to turn to one of Óin's infamous _remedies_ in your old age, my love."

"Durins never stoop to such concoctions."

"If you can't perform, my dear," said Bilbo with a downright lascivious smile, "Then you won't be given a choice."

"You barbaric, demanding miscreant."

"What can I say, we hobbits are very fond of life's greatest pleasures."

Thorin noticed that their nephew was watching them through the balcony doors. "Would you like to join us, mizimith?"

"Nope, I just wanna pear," said Frodo. He walked right past them and grabbed two juicy ones off of the small tree in Bilbo's gardens. It had been a gift from Thranduil and his son at Bilbo's last birthday party. "And I kinda like my toes not broken, too."

"By Mahâl," said Thorin, "You hobbits are a vicious lot."

"And dwarves are clumsy with their feet," Frodo fired back. He took a big bite out of his pear. "It's no wonder you're all bad at hide and seek. Louder than Uncle Rorimac at Lithe. And that's saying a lot."

The little boy disappeared back into the mountain just as quickly as he'd emerged, purposely ignoring any attempts that Thorin made to coax him outside again. Not even promises of keeping Frodo's feet off the ground worked on the young faunt. Bilbo just laughed and assured his husband that even if Frodo had wanted to learn dwarven dances—and that was unlikely due to Frodo's age and the presence of Donel—he still would've been cautious due to his exposed feet. No one in the mountain seemed to grasp just how painful it was to have unprotected toes crushed beneath the heel of a heavy-footed and very heavy- _booted_ dwarf.

"He'll come around eventually," assured Bilbo. "For now, dragons and toys and wolves and fart cushions are much more interesting. And Prim loved to dance, so he might be remembering his mother as well."

"I remember Frerin and Dís when our mother taught us—how they complained that it wasn't useful. We were welcoming a delegation of Stiffbeards from the Orocarni Mountains in the far east. And as far as Frerin was concerned, Amad never let him do anything useful or purely for fun." Thorin couldn't suppress a smile. "That's the lot of a younger brother, I suppose."

With a keen interest about Thorin's rarely-spoken-of brother, Bilbo asked, "To never do anything useful?"

"To want to. To see the responsibilities your elders are saddled with and wish you had more of the same." Thorin's hand tightened on Bilbo's lower back and the King pulled him closer. "To take up the sword, train for war, risk your life."

And lose it.

"Frerin was a good brother," said Thorin, "But he never enjoyed living in someone's shadow, either. He would've made an excellent captain and advisor someday. He always insisted on proving himself to anyone who would listen or see, which he probably inherited from our father. And he was far more interested in other cultures than myself or Dís. He used to beg Amad to take him to Dale's markets, or to watch the skin-changers perform their hunting rituals. It fascinated him."

"I think I would've liked your brother."

"And he would've liked you in return." The King easily picked Bilbo up and twirled him around before turning into a quick step sequence. "He always enjoyed speaking with the hobbits whenever we passed through the Shire. Unlike our sister and myself, Frerin could actually cook. He had a great talent for sweets and meat pies. If it wasn't for Frerin's strict training regimen, he probably would've been as plump as a hobbit. Or Bombur."

Bilbo smiled. "I would've liked him very much then."

"Kíli favors him a great deal," Thorin admitted. "Both in coloring and in personality. Frerin always preferred the bow over the sword. Silly, practical, and incredibly stubborn. He didn't live long enough to grow a proper beard or wear the archer's sideburns and facial inkings. We had a few designs picked out..."

For the first time, or what he told himself was the first time, Bilbo tried to imagine it—what it must have been like, to be a younger brother, and yearn to prove he could take care of those around him as well as be taken care of by them—what a brother would do, if he could use what strength he had to save his family and friends. Of course, Bilbo had never met Frerin, or the many others who Thorin often spoke of and called kin so fondly. He was a hobbit. Of course, he couldn't imagine such a cruelly nomadic, hungry, and tragic childhood.

"Your brother had a point," Bilbo said instead. "I couldn't imagine living such an unpredictable existence at that young of an age. Dancing and parties must seem quite silly to those without food or proper shelter. "

"To a point, yes. Dancing is useless. After we'd spent our childhood running and hiding, can anyone blame Dís for wanting to remember something frivolous that our mother had taught us, instead of another thing we'd lost to that infernal dragon? Dís had the most to fear out of the three of us, being a young dwarven lass in an unforgiving world of men and orcs and elves, but you should have seen the way her face lit up when you spun her across the cottage floor."

"A life of running and hiding with no room for frivolity," Bilbo said. He didn't even notice how smoothly his husband moved him. "It does sound terrible."

"I don't recommend it. And I'll _never_ let it happen to you."

"No. I don't believe you will."

As though to clear it, Thorin shook his head and shot Bilbo a grin. And then, with a sliding step, Thorin drew closer again. "A new one, this time. If I may?"

The hobbit looked at his husband's hand warily, eyes as shrewd as ever. He had attended many dwarven feasts and pseudo-balls since he'd come to live in Erebor five years ago, but Bilbo had avoided dancing since the first celebration after his wedding. Never before had Bilbo's toes been so trampled upon, most of his partners totally forgetting that hobbits did not wear boots or shoes of any kind. Óin had scolded nearly every dwarf that wandered into his sight the next morning, griping loudly about fool-loving idiots who ignored the bare feet of their chosen partner.

Dwarves were a very rambunctious bunch during celebrations of any type, so it didn't surprise Bilbo when he was thrown into one dance after another with dwarf after dwarf after dwarf, being twirled and dipped and thrown around despite not knowing any of the dance maneuvers himself. That same night, he had hobbled off of the dance floor and vowed to never dance with another dwarf again.

Hobbits and elves, yes; men and dwarves, no.

But now, here was his great galoot of a handsome husband, voice and movements and face going all slow and sweet and sensuous...

Oh, bother.

"You may," Bilbo said. "If nothing else, you've roused my curiosity."

"It's my life's purpose," said Thorin, his arms circling Bilbo's shoulders. "Now, how about a dwarf dance this time? None of those safe hobbit ones, umzam. If you'll put your arm around my waist... Aye, like that. Not so hard, is it?"

If for a moment Bilbo felt nervous in the pose, Thorin leaned against him in the next, a warm and assuring weight at his side. "Is this the dwarven inclination of contact for the sake of contact, then? I fear for my toes already, dearest King."

"Absolutely. Contact and spinning. And no toe stomping."

"So, how is this dwarven spinning properly done?" asked Bilbo, warily curling his foot against the metal of Thorin's boots. The King had not yet failed his life's purpose. "I hope I won't be spun into any kegs or old dwarven ladies again."

"Easily enough. I'm going to leap, and you're going to lift and turn with me." Thorin winked at him. "Nothing in our way."

"You've a strange view of easy, âzyungel. And just for the record, those feints and parries yesterday were _not_ easy." Bilbo grimaced in recollection. "No matter what Dwalin or our dear nephew claims."

Bilbo could hear a shout from inside their bedchambers, one of the boys obviously acting as the dragon in their imaginary battles. It was probably Donel, who always chose to play with the beastly toys whenever he was given the chance. Beorn and the oliphants were his first picks most of the time. And Bilbo was certain that Bofur's newest dragon model would be a favorite now, too.

"Easier to do than talk about. Come on—"

And with that scant warning, Bilbo felt Thorin's weight shift and sway forward. On instinct, his arm tightened around the dwarf's waist, not for the dance but to keep him from falling—to keep him flying as his feet left the ground, no support but a partner who enjoyed riling Bilbo up at every opportunity. Their turn was quick, clutching, clumsy, but at its end Thorin was laughing.

"There!" he declared, and hugged Bilbo to his chest. "You swept me off my feet."

"You nearly trampled me," accused the hobbit, although there was no bite in it. He couldn't be so vindictive with Thorin smiling big and wide like that. "But my toes seem to still be intact, which is definitely an improvement, I think."

"We can work on that." Untangling an arm, Thorin brushed his fingers to Bilbo's cheek. "There's time yet. We can try different holds, different lifts, and once we've got the steps, we can practice to music. The boys can play their fiddles."

"All in preparation for your grand ball?"

"If you'd like to go." Thorin looked down, knowing how much he'd been asking of his husband in recent times. "Would you like to go?"

"You might have asked that before announcing me your escort," Bilbo scoffed. He then leaned back and cracked his spine to great effect. "My back feels like Dwalin sat on it. Oh, wait, I forgot, Dwalin _did_ sit on it." Thorin at least had the dignity to look sheepish. "However, I would like to be at your side. It gives me a certain level of satisfaction to have you on my arm in public. And I so enjoy the scandalized looks on some of their faces, too."

"That's only the beginning of how I want you," Thorin said, between a laugh and a kiss laid under Bilbo's ear. "And I told you why. I want to share everything great or grand in my life with you. My father evaded the master of the Jeweler's Guild and stole a set of mithril-laden robes to dance with my mother—it's in my blood."

"Even your tales of romance involve stealing precious metals," Bilbo observed. He twisted some of Thorin's hair around his finger. "I must say, you dwarves are as dastardly as the Sackville-Baggins."

"It's the tale I grew up on," said Thorin without shame. "And there's no need to be insulting."

"That explains much about you."

"Doesn't it? That was the night Amad finally decided to allow my father to court her. I used to think there was the romance—dashing away from the enraged guild master, cutting free from family and responsibility for even a short time. Not exactly possible for an exiled crown prince."

"And now?"

Thorin rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "Amad taught us a dance she learned in Dale—a dance my father chanced his whiskers to have with her—and here I am in the home she perished in, sharing a dance with you. Ori would call that the narrative thread, I believe. It passes from family to family. And the romance isn't the family you leave, but the family you find."

"Would you look at that," said Bilbo with a teasing smile, "My grumpy, broody husband, being all poetic on me. We must inform Dís. She'll have a heart attack."

"She's too busy scheming at the moment."

"Your sister is truly terrifying when she puts her mind to it," laughed Bilbo. "Honestly, I'm surprised that she hasn't kicked your elf-hating bum off the throne and taken over half of the northern realms yet."

"Not exactly her method of choice," said Thorin. His hands were inappropriately low on Bilbo's back now. "Dís prefers the more subtle options of fraternal manipulation and passive-aggressive diplomacy. Hostile takeovers are too messy, according to her. It probably explains why she and Nori get along so well."

"Well, that certainly sounds like Dís. Intimidating, elegant, and ruthless to the very end."

"She's much like our mother in that regard." Thorin looked wistful for a moment. "Our grandfather's refusal to listen to his wife or Amad was the final proof of his descent into madness. It cost them their lives, in the end. And I think that's why Dís keeps the happy memories so close. To remind herself—and me—about what can happen when those in power forget about everything smaller and simpler in life."

Bilbo felt inordinately sad about the whole situation. A mother passing on a memory of the city where she was born, before it became the city where she would die. A brother, eager to match his elders, before he lost his life too young on the battlefield. A sister forgetting her fears before the responsibilities of a lost princess took her away again. A father, in the story of a stolen dance and robes, before his story ended. A grandfather fallen to madness and dragon fire and the defiled axe of a great white orc. And Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, who had nothing to add—nothing a simple hobbit of the Shire could ever hope to compare to in grandiose, noble bearing, or royal blood.

"What are you trying to say, my love? That I need to steal some fancy robes from the guild halls. Master Orkin would be most cross with me, I fear."

"Only that I'm glad I found you."

In an instant, Bilbo had him seized in a kiss—a kiss to prove that Thorin was not a mad king like those before him, but a dwarf of heart, love, and compassion. That where Bilbo pushed, Thorin would push back; that when Bilbo swelled forward, Thorin would rush to meet him. It left the hobbit as dizzy as a dwarven dance and caused a warm knot to form in his lower belly. His husband really was quite the charmer. Sometimes...

"As am I," said Bilbo in the breathless space between them. "Eru, I'm so glad I found you."

"So I've gathered, âzyungel." Then Thorin gave him a salacious smile and a filthy wink. "I think we'll have to dance more often if _this_ is the end result."

Bilbo sniffed at that remark. "You can resume your lesson, my King."

"Such a vicious taskmaster," laughed Thorin. However, he also flashed a smile upon his hobbit-y husband, full of fondness and devotion. When Thorin pulled back, his hands were still touching Bilbo's arms while his feet gently nudged the hobbit's bare toes. "Here. Now let me lead you..."

Neither of them noticed the small figures watching them from the balcony doors with furrowed brows. Numerous toys laid aside for a brief moment, Frodo didn't know if he was supposed to be disgusted or reassured by his uncles' open display of love and kissy-kissy faces. Donel said that his parents did it all the time, but it was still weird to see his uncles being so mushy with each other. He wondered if the visiting dwarves and Uncle Thorin's jealous butthead tendencies—as Uncle Dwalin and Aunt Dís liked to call it—had anything to do with it.

"Ewwww, are they still kissing?"

"Uh huh."

"Yuck. Uncles are so weird."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, these two just love being sappy with each other. It's like they force it out of my fingers. Writing romance still isn't my strong suit at all, so hopefully this turned out somewhat well. By the way, every geographic location I mention in my stories is Tolkien canon since they come straight from his huge world map of Arda and notes on the regions/continents/islands outside of Middle-Earth. Also, good news: things have been completely quiet for over a week now. I think my tantrums and bitching did the trick.


	5. Chapter V

The Great Hall of Thrór, the chamber where nearly all feasts and councils in the Kingdom Under the Mountain were held, had been a cavernous, dimly lit room when Bilbo had first seen it after they'd reclaimed the mountain. It had been soiled with the filth and poo of the dragon, filled with broken and rotting tables and chairs, and the bleached bones and skulls of countless dwarves that had been scattered all across the granite-paved floor. Even the walls had been blackened by the smoke of dragon-fire, the thrones of the King and Consort crushed into the ground by Smaug's massive claws. Bilbo had avoided it like the plague before his departure, thoroughly unsettled by the mummified bodies and stench of death.

However, that was seven years ago and now, with Erebor slowly being restored to its former glory, the beautiful hall stood yet again as a testament to dwarven architecture and the continued strength of Durin's line. It was illuminated by lamps that looked like opaqued glass spheres, suspended on golden chains from artfully wrought bronze and crystal holders fastened along every wall. Long tables of heavy oak ran along the walls, leaving free only the wide apse opposite the main door, where stood a dais of carved stone, big enough for a dozen dwarves to stand on. The hall even had tall, arched windows, cut into the rock of the mountain and fitted with an intricate pattern of wrought iron and stained glass that broke the sunlight into a rainbow-coloured pattern on the floor.

"I hope your sister knows what she's doing," said Bilbo as he attempted to braid Kíli's hair into some semblance of order. "Having this many dwarf clans in a single hall with countless tankards of ale just seems to be asking for trouble. And we've had enough of that already as it is, my dear."

"Amad will just throw anyone who causes trouble off the battlements," stated Fíli. "She doesn't take kindly to people ruining her hard work."

Thorin snorted. "That's an understatement."

"I think her and Balin are trying to encourage some intermingling between the clans," said Fíli with a thoughtful frown. "She's been muttering about marriage possibilities and inter-clan diplomacy for the past week. It's making me a little uneasy."

"Your mother's not going to marry you off tonight or any time in the near future," assured Thorin. He was fighting with the little buttons on Frodo's nicest waistcoat. "I think she's just hoping for non-violent interactions between clans, since the guild halls and training grounds have turned into a battlefield in recent weeks."

"Grandmaster Gomi and his oldest niece—the bad-tempered silversmith, remember her?—beat the snot out of a couple of Firebeard welders the other morning," said Kíli with a far too amused smirk. "And one of Master Charin's apprentices was seen throwing his needles at a Blacklock scribe. It's pure chaos down there."

"For Eru's sake, would you please hold still?!" Bilbo tugged roughly on his nephew's hair. "Worse than Frodo with this, you are."

Bilbo grabbed Erebor's youngest prince by the chin and forced him to stand still for a half-minute. When it came to hair maintenance and tidiness, Kíli was about as neglectful as a dwarf could come, especially when it applied to his braids. Bilbo dreaded the day when Kíli's sideburns finally started to grow in; not because of the archer inkings that he would have pressed into his clean shaven jaw and throat, but the lack of combing and brushing and braiding that would no doubt follow their growth. And if there was any member of their family who didn't enjoy dressing or acting like royalty, it was Kíli.

"What did Dori do?"

"He threw the whole lot of them into a granite wall." Kíli bounced up and down in demented glee, which earned him a smack upside the head from Bilbo. "And then he broke the instigator's nose. There haven't been too many problems since, but I think a couple of them have been trying to court Dori now, too."

"I will never understand dwarven negotiations," Bilbo sighed. "Or your attraction to unnecessary brutality. A broken nose, really?"

"You would've had to have seen the blushing and sputtering and googly eyes to have believed it," said Kíli, face twisting into the lovesick visage of Dori's suitors. "And one of them is Gronin, the Firebeard who attacked you."

Bilbo paused. "Really?"

"Uh huh, Dori smashed a tray over his head for having the gall to even talk to him." The prince snickered to himself. "I don't think he even realized that Dori was one of your main companions on the quest. He's lucky Dori didn't break more than his nose, trust me."

"He's already got half the delegations proposing marriage to him," laughed Fíli. "They've been leaving him and Nori all kinds of gifts on their doorstep. Poor Ori's hiding in the library to escape it. And I think Dori's about ready to rip his braids out from frustration and insult."

"Interesting."

A loud knock came from the bedroom door and Dís swept in without a word of welcome, as was her usual routine. She made a bee-line for Kíli and plucked at his hair and face and clothes with the air of a skeptical mother. She knew her child well, and that meant not trusting him to be presentable without a little outside help. With a small nod of approval, she slapped Bilbo on the back and made for the door again.

"I assume everybody's ready?"

Bilbo smoothed over his finest waistcoat, jacket, and trousers, a little bit of dwarven flair added along the edges in a tasteful combination of hobbit and Ereborian styles. He had chosen a green, yellow, and red ensemble for this particular occasion, his buttons a beautiful brass array of acorns, leaves, hammers, quills, swords, lions, birds, and the crest of Durin that each member of the Company had made for him. Thorin was, of course, dressed in his favorite shades of blue and black, looking exactly like the imposing Dwarf-King that he was. It only took a few moments for all of them to don their least ceremonial crowns, all of which were less cumbersome and much easier on the neck.

"I believe so," said Bilbo as he straightened Frodo's silver and sapphire circlet. "Hmm, it's getting a lil' tight around the left ear."

Thorin just waved him off. "I'll commission a larger one next week."

"Of course."

"Now, there's no need for sarcasm, âzyungel," drawled Thorin as they prepared to leave for the feast. "You know how it wounds me."

"Like an orc wound. I know, dearest."

Kíli released a loud sigh. "They're flirting again, Amad. Please make them stop, my brain can't handle it."

"You'll survive."

After straightening Frodo's waistcoat and circlet for the third time, Bilbo disappeared into his and Thorin's bedchambers and made a bee-line for the third drawer from the top of their wardrobe. Two silver coins lay amongst the dark blue and red thread that Bilbo often used to fix his nephews' battered clothes, both completely inconspicuous to the eyes of an outsider. Bilbo took a moment to appreciate the intricate axes that had been carved into either side of the coins.

"Bilbo?"

"Just a moment. Coming, coming!"

"Stop picking at your ears," scolded Dís. "By Mahâl, you _are_ worse than Frodo."

"Kíli just wants to look pretty tonight, aye?" Fíli's eyebrows waggled back and forth at his brother. "Maybe we should add a few flowers or slugs to his hair. And some musk to his armpits. Give him a more earthy feel. I think that would appeal to her, right?"

"I swear, Fíli, if you don't—"

Dís snorted. "It is rather endearing, isn't it? What do you think, Bilbo?"

"Amad! Ugh, I hope none of your scheming works," said Kíli with a pout, "And everyone decides to stick to their own clans and the guild halls turn into a huge riot of throwing needles, bread knives, and angry badgers."

"Oh, hush up."

The Great Hall was completely full and bustling when they entered, fully decorated and full of richly clad dwarves who sat at the long, low tables on masterfully carved oaken chairs. The tables had been set with plates and tankards of gold, silver, and copper, each piece individually adorned, and Bilbo could not help but be amazed by the amount of talent and loving, patient work put into them. He would never cease to be amazed by the intense joy and pride that dwarves took in all things made by skilled hands and those who dedicated their whole lives to a particular craft.

It seemed that there was no particular place of honour at the majority of tables. The various clans and guild members had been seated in a strange pattern along the tables, families scattered about in all directions. Well, seated would be an exaggeration when one spoke of certain Broadbeams, of course. The almost frighteningly fat dwarves were practically _lying_ in double-width armchairs, filled to the brim with pillows. Bilbo suspected that the whole arrangement was Dís' doing, who was never above manipulation and subterfuge to gain control or influence over a situation.

"Your sister's been busy." Bilbo looked over at the enormous Broadbeams. "And I think we need to keep a close eye on Bombur in the future."

Thorin snorted. "I believe Bofur's keeping close tabs on that particular situation."

"Good to hear."

With Frodo tucked up in his arms, Bilbo moved toward the long table that sat atop the dais at the very front of the chamber. He groaned at the sight of Dáin Ironfoot—who was already seated at the table with an enormous platter of food—and the leaders of the Blackfoot, Firebeard, Stonefoot, and Broadbeam delegations. He didn't know which was worse: the prospect of Thorin's over-enthusiastic cousin crushing him to death with a hair-filled hug or a slew of dwarves who couldn't stand the thought of a non-dwarf as Erebor's Consort.

Personally, Bilbo was inclined to view the xenophobes as the lesser of two evils right now.

"Good evening, Dáin."

The close relation between the Lord of the Iron Hills and Bilbo's husband allowed him to dismiss the use of higher titles if he was so inclined. And if there was one thing about dwarves that Bilbo thought was ridiculously silly, it was their incessant use of frivolous titles. Why would anyone feel compelled to address their own cousins, aunts, uncles, or grandparents in such a way? It made absolutely no sense, if you asked him.

"Bilbo! My, don't you look stunning?" As predicted, Bilbo was soon swept up into a bone-crushing hug and light head bump. "And is that dear lil' Frodo? By Mahâl, he's truly grown into his ears since last I'd seen him."

"Thank you, Dáin. You look very nice as well. Is Helm here?"

"Nay, he's looking after the mountains with his mother. Good practice for him, we decided." Dáin tried to grab Thorin in a similar bear-hug, but was promptly cuffed upside the head and shoved to the side. "Ah, as charming as ever, dear cousin."

Dís just glared and said, "I dare you to try. See what will happen."

"You truly are a brave one, Bilbo," said Dáin with a deep bellied laugh. "My cousins are an intimidating pair at the best of times and yet you've somehow managed to tame the roiling beasts. Not to mention the princes! A weaver of magic and miracles, you most definitely are."

Bilbo didn't miss the sharp glare that Dáin gave the seated delegation leaders. Nor did he miss the subtle wink that was given to Dís as she glided past them. It seemed that the Lord of the Iron Hills had been invited for a reason, and that involved showing his support for Thorin's Consort. When he actually put his mind to it, Dáin could be a very formidable opponent, both on the battlefield and in the court.

"I fear that you vastly overestimate my beast-taming abilities, Dáin."

"Nonsense! Our family's short tempers and cantankerous dispositions are the stuff of legend." The stout dwarf tore viciously into the chicken leg in his right hand. "You'd have to be blessed by Mahâl and his Green Lady to be so successful in conquering the Line of Durin. Ah, but I never thought about that before," said Dáin with a surprised grin. "You hobbits are said to have been created by Yavanna herself, correct?"

Bilbo nodded. "Our lives and green fields are blessed by the Lady Kementári."

"Ha! Would you look at that?" Dáin's deep and loud belly-laugh could be heard throughout the crowded hall, and he was not being discreet in the slightest. "A union between the creations of our wedded creators. Truly a marriage blessed by the Valar themselves."

"I wouldn't quite say that—"

Their conversation was interrupted by the deep, melodic sound of a huge gong ringing somewhere outside of the Great Hall. A faint creaking followed it and then the granite walls began to move on a good portion of the left and right sides, pulling up like a drawbridge and revealing six small chambers where a dozen or so dwarves sat with various musical instruments. With a wave of Thorin's hand, they began to play a traditional song of welcoming that Bilbo recognized from several other feasts that had involved those of foreign citizenship. All songs were in Westron, of course, since there were at least twenty or more northmen and skin-changers dining and dancing with them this evening. Dwarves guarded their secret language jealously and would not tolerate outsiders hearing more than a few snippets of it.

Then again, this policy made little sense to Bilbo when it came to the skin-changers, who frequently lived within the mountain when they were between patrols on the borders of Dale, Erebor, and Mirkwood. As far as he knew, skin-changers had even sharper hearing than elves, so it wouldn't surprise Bilbo if Currin and her companions had heard a great deal of Khuzdul during their stays in the mountain. Not that the skin-changers seemed to care, of course. There was little of dwarven, human, or elven culture that held any interest to them.

"Thank you for your musical selection this evening, King Thorin," said a new voice from behind Bilbo. "It's quite easy on the ears. Even a little soothing."

"I am relieved to hear that, Mother Nymeria."

Bilbo turned around with a jolt and noticed that the chamber had become significantly quieter, which was unusual at the worst of times for drunken dwarves. However, the towering woman behind him was grand enough to silence even the drunkest of dwarves, so intimidating her presence was. For the first time in the five years that Bilbo had called Erebor home, Bilbo was seeing and meeting the leader of the skin-changers in the flesh.

"Your halls are just as exquisite as I remember," said the elderly alpha. "I am gratified to see that Erebor and her surrounding lands have recovered so well under your rule."

"It has been a long, arduous road fraught with many perils, Mother."

"And yet you have persevered quite admirably, young King." All of the delegation leaders watched the towering woman with wary eyes. "I must admit, I was expecting much instability with the recovery, but King Bard and yourself have handled matters quite well since the reclamation. My granddaughter's reports are optimistic, and I can assure you that she's not a pup who gives praise easily."

"We are eternally grateful for your pack's assistance. It has been invaluable to Erebor's rebirth."

The skin-changer accepted the chair that Kíli pulled out for her, a sharp nod and toothy smile that was very similar to her own granddaughter's being bestowed upon Erebor's youngest prince. However, that was where the similarities ended, because Nymeria was a completely different beast than the young pack members that Thorin and Bilbo so often worked with. Nymeria stood taller than any elf or man that Bilbo had ever seen before, her height nearly rivaling that of Beorn's, which was no small feat. Pure white hair cascaded down her back, but whether it was her natural color or due to advanced age, Bilbo couldn't be sure. And, as seemed to be the norm amongst her people, the shapeshifting elder had eyes of molten gold and a spattering of fur that was scarcely hidden beneath her simple clothes.

"And I assume that you're the one responsible for Erebor's and Dale's fruitful farmlands?"

Bilbo nearly squeaked when he realized that she was addressing him. "Oh, umm, yes, a little bit. The men of Dale are very capable farmers, though. I've only given a bit of advice here and there, most of it's been their hard work and innovation. And we still rely on regular trade with Dorwinion and the southern cities to supplement our longest winters."

"And the elves as well," said Nymeria. She paid no heed to Thorin or the other dwarves who scowled at such a statement. "It has been far too many centuries since I've last seen such diverse trade relations in this region and I must admit, it's definitely a change for the better. Your people and the men of Dale appear to be prospering, King Thorin. I can sense their contentment and trust in your reign."

"We've still a long way to go before restoring Erebor to its former glory. But we're slowly getting there, Mother."

Bilbo nearly choked on a chip when he realized that his husband was _blushing_. It wasn't obvious to any but those who knew Thorin most well, but Bilbo could see the pink spots just above his husband's beard. Even Dís had straightened up a little in her chair, dark blue eyes taking on that imperious shine that always happened when she was particularly satisfied with herself. Apparently, such a grand compliment from the Lady of the North was a rare occurrence, and both Durins appeared to bask in the approval that the elderly skin-changer had given them.

"And your venison is superb as well. My compliments to the chef."

They went through formal introductions after that, each of the delegation leaders presenting themselves to the King Under the Mountain, his family, and the visiting Lady of the North. And despite Bilbo's unfamiliarity with the other clans, he could see and hear an undercurrent of derision in the way they addressed Bilbo and his blood nephew. He internally reprimanded himself for being paranoid at first, but then he noticed that Mother Nymeria was watching the clan leaders with the same frosty stare that Currin often adopted when she was disgusted with someone's underlying smell or behavior. He suspected that Kíli might have noticed it as well.

"Amad outdid herself this time," Kíli snickered into his ear a half-hour later. "She's literally created a barricade of influence around you with Dáin, Mother Nymeria, Bard, and Thranduil on all four sides. To attack or insult you again would be an affront against Erebor _and_ at least four other kingdoms."

"Do you think they'll try anything before or during the duels?"

"Mother Nymeria and at least two dozen of her pack will be here for the next four weeks." The prince glared at a Blackfoot who had given Bilbo and Frodo an upturned nose during the introductions. "If they try anything, she will sense it. Currin assured me of that."

"You knew she was coming?"

Kíli blushed a little at that. Today seemed to be the day of the blushing Durins, Bilbo thought. Not that the hobbit minded, of course. Durins tended to be quite adorable and endearing when they were flustered or taken off-guard.

"Maybe."

Bilbo watched as Kíli handed a large plate of braised beef to Mother Nymeria, a charming smile plastered onto his face as she accepted it. The Durins were seated at the top of the table, Bilbo and Dís on either side of Thorin while Frodo sat atop three cushions on a double-wide chair with the King himself. The young hobbit was pointedly ignoring everyone else at the table, eyes and fingers firmly invested in a mince pie that Thorin had snuck right under Bilbo's nose during the main course. When it came to spoiling or giving into Frodo's demands, Thorin and Dwalin were always the first to cave in. It never failed.

"You're getting pretty good at this politics thing," said Bilbo with a raised eyebrow. "Should I be concerned?"

"Not in the slightest. I'm on your side. Always."

The feast drew to a close when several tables at the center of the hall were moved aside and hundreds of dwarves took to the dance floor, Bilbo's toes curling in trepidation when he saw all of the leaping and twirling and tossing that the traditional dwarven dances entailed. He reached over to pick Frodo up and use him as an excuse not to take to the dance floor, but Bilbo's fingers met nothing but air and plush cushions.

"Your Majesty," said Thorin with a smirk, "Would you honor me with a dance?"

"I don't think..." He looked around for Frodo again and came up with nothing. "Yes, of course."

"There's no need to fret," assured Thorin. He pointed out to the dance floor where two familiar figures were twirling around and around, the smaller partner's feet kicking in the air. "Fíli decided to use Frodo as an effective barrier between himself and the Stonefoot ladies who've been eying him all evening. Frodo will chase them away if he thinks they're bothering or trying to steal his favorite big cousins."

Bilbo snorted. "They become more and more devious with each passing day. Brilliant."

"And you couldn't be prouder, either."

Bilbo got to his feet, wincing a little bit at all the steel-tipped boots as Thorin gestured to the musicians in the corner as he rose. They began playing a more stately air. Half of those in the room migrated to the sides of the hall to continue to talk and drink and gamble, while the rest lined up in neat rows facing each other and began to execute an intricate pattern of steps. Bilbo's heart sank. No, this was nothing like the traditional dances of the Shire. His toes were going to die.

Thorin took his arm and moved down the steps of the dais. "I don't know this dance," Bilbo whispered to him. "My toes..."

"No matter," he responded quietly, and gestured to the musicians once again. The music changed to something sweeping. "Just follow my lead."

"Do I have a choice?"

The King turned his Consort to face him, one hand clasped in Bilbo's and the other resting lightly on his waist, and began to dance. Bilbo quickly found the rhythm of it, in a three-beat sequence, and once he had that it was easy. Thorin swept his hobbit neatly around the floor, several of Erebor's citizens watching the rare sight of their Consort willingly dancing at a feast. He caught sight of several foreign nobles glaring at him, and once they spun past Dori, who winked and grinned at him over the head of the tiny brunette he was dancing with.

Thorin smiled at him. "This dance, I think, is more to your tastes," he said, executing a sharp turn and drawing Bilbo along with him. "And your toes, umzam."

Bilbo laughed. "Okay, I'll admit, this is quite fun."

Too soon, the music ended and Thorin stepped back with a bow. "I must go and speak with the Stonefoot delegation," he said regretfully. "I will return as soon as I may."

After that, Bilbo made his way to the side of the room, where he could get a breath of somewhat fresh air. The jacket he wore was beautiful with its sewn-in jewels and gold embroidery, but that also made it very heavy and Bilbo was a bit short of breath. He spent several minutes watching his nephews, who were dancing wildly about the floor with their respective partners. Frodo seemed to be making his rounds more than anybody else and was cleanly transferred between Fíli, Kíli, Gimli, Dís, and Dáin after each round about the hall. He may have also been snatched up by Dala and Bofur a few times as well.

"You would be the halfling, then." Bilbo turned around to see a young Blackfoot woman examining him with an upturned nose and barely-there sneer. "I expected the Consort to at least be dressed in traditional dwarven attire. Do your kind always walk about barefoot?"

Bilbo gritted his teeth and reminded himself not to cause a scene. He had no doubt that this dwarf knew Fifnir and his accomplices, and the last thing Bilbo needed right now was to get into a fight with a Blacklock. He already had more than enough of that on his hands as it was, no need to have yet another foreigner trying to assassinate the odd hobbit who'd desecrated their most sacred throne and mountain.

"Even in the Shire," Bilbo said coolly, "We know how to clothe ourselves. And yes, we always go barefoot. It's only natural for hobbits. Our feet are even tougher and sturdier than your boots."

Another Blacklock walked up to them and stated, "I think it a bit presumptuous of you to wear colors that do not belong to your husband's clan."

"Oh, he can't be expected to know," the first dwarf said. "He isn't from the surrounding cities or a dwarven background, after all, and when was the last time they showed any couth or respect for our culture?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," Dori drawled as he sauntered up to them. "The Consort is displaying quite a bit more couth than you at the moment, Lady Jema."

"Master Dori." The second dwarf fluttered her lashes at him. "Won't you dance with me?"

"It is the host's prerogative to ask for a dance, Serin," said Jema with a sniff. "Especially if they're a member of the King's Company."

"Indeed, it is," Dori agreed. "My Consort, may I have this dance?"

Bilbo was sure that his smile showed more relief than was wise as he put his hand in Dori's. "Yes, thank you."

The Guildmaster swept Bilbo onto the floor—it was another of those sweeping dances—and placed his hand lightly on the hobbit's waist. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner," he said. "I vow there is no more vicious pair of vipers in all the dwarven kingdoms than those two. They've been after Nori and myself for weeks now."

"I'm not stupid just because I'm from the Shire," Bilbo said bitterly. "And they're the ones I've been hearing about from the boys, aren't they?"

"Of course, you aren't." Dori turned smoothly. "And they're not any better than you just because they're dwarves and could buy and sell half of the city with their monthly allowances, but that doesn't stop them thinking that they're superior. And yes to the second question as well."

"How many?"

Dori's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Seventeen, as of this morning. Nori's been pursued by even more, I fear. They've been quite persistent."

"And this evening?"

"Twenty-five." Dori paused and glanced around them. "Dancing with you just saved me from number twenty-six."

"You're a popular dwarf, my friend."

"They simply won't leave me alone," sighed the dwarf as he swept Bilbo across the floor. Not a single toe was stepped on. "I've even thought about asking Nori to work some of his...magic at this point. Almost anything is preferable to them singing outside my kitchen window in the morning."

"By Yavanna, you must be joking."

"I'll have to show you my boxes of courting gifts when you next visit." Dori easily maneuvered Bilbo through a series of complicated leaps and twirls. "Nori's been trying to steal and sell them for the past month now. I might have allowed him to knick a few. For the pantry, of course. Nori's sweet tooth can be rather pricy at times."

"Of course."

Bilbo reached into his pocket during a brief lull in the music and swiftly slipped the coin into Dori's hand. The fussy dwarf's brow furrowed, his thick fingers uncurling so that he could more closely examine the strange object that the hobbit had given him. Bilbo felt the teamaker's shoulders tense when he realized exactly what Bilbo's had pressed into his hand.

"This is a great honor to both myself and my family, Bilbo," stated Dori. The Champion's Coin glimmered in the lantern light of the Great Hall. "Are you sure that I'm who you wish to represent your honor and position in the arena?"

Bilbo nodded. "I can think of no one better, Dori. And maybe this will get some of those bothersome suitors off your back."

The two friends shared a friendly smile and head bump.

"I accept."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A whole lot of people have been asking for more skin-changers and Currin, so I thought showing her venerable grandmother might be called for at this point. I've actually modeled Nymeria a little bit after Olenna Tyrell here; incredibly blunt, politically savvy, and a chessmaster in her own right. And there's the first of Bilbo's champions! Dori seemed like a good choice, at least in my mind, as I'll explain in future chapters. Dáin's becoming a bit of a favorite for me as well. So many people seem to cast him in a negative light, that I just feel compelled to make Thorin's cousin (who canonically told a Ringwraith to _fuck off_ when he came to Erebor for Bilbo Baggins) the most amiable and boisterous member of their whole family.


	6. Chapter VI

The feast was a loud and joyous event. The dishes were tasty and the tankards were refilled with alarming speed. During dwarven feasts, Bilbo always got the feeling that he had somehow been transferred to an earlier age, when things had been simpler and the joy in life less clouded, more fierce. Of course, he was more than a little tipsy already. Hobbits had an amazing endurance in regards to wine, but dwarven ale was a different matter. Bilbo was nursing his second tankard when a hand suddenly grabbed him from behind and dragged him out onto the dance floor. He barely managed to place his drink on a table without spilling it.

"Bofur! What in the world are you doing?"

"Showing my fellow dwarves how a true party works," said the miner. He knocked all of the tankards off a nearby table and then jumped atop it. "And how hobbits are the best partygoers in the West. Aye, I've seen your get togethers. They put us dwarves to shame."

"Have you been sniffing the diamond dust again? I'm not about to—"

A set of hands suddenly grabbed Bilbo beneath the armpits and hoisted him up onto the oaken table as well. He could hear an all too familiar giggle in his ear, which was the first sign that Fíli and Kíli had been involved in this fiasco, too. And lo and behold, Kíli and several miners were standing on the surrounding tables, the young prince signaling to the musicians to play another song. Bilbo immediately recognized it.

"Care for a hobbit-y dance, Uncle Bilbo?" asked Kíli with a wide smile. "I think these will be more to your liking. Much more toe-friendly, too."

Bilbo looked down and was shocked to see that his nephew, Bofur, and all of the miners were barefoot. However, he'd barely noticed this before Kíli's arms were looped about his shoulders and the familiar tunes of the Shire started to play. His nephew gave him a giant smile and a wink. And with his usual flair for the dramatic, Bofur belted out one of Bilbo's favorite songs from his childhood.

 _"Oh you can search far and wide,_

_You can drink the whole town dry,_

_But you'll never find a beer so brown,_

The miners were stamping their furless feet perfectly in time with the beat, raucously shouting and clapping and interlinking their arms as Bofur transitioned between each part of the song. A small portion of the crowd—probably those from the Blue Mountains who were familiar with the Shire and its customs—started clapping and cheering as every miner took a large swig of ale whenever anything alcohol-related was mentioned.

_Oh you'll never find a beer so brown,_

Bilbo wasn't quite sure how it happened, but he had a tankard of ale in his unoccupied hand a few moments later. His nephew knocked their cups together and took a huge swig, their arms interlinked for the energetic steps and spinning that characterized all hobbit dances.

 _As the one we drink in our hometown,_

_As the one we drink in our hometown._

_You can keep your fancy ales,_

_You can drink them by the flagon,_

_But the only brew for the brave and true..._

_Comes from the Green Dragon!"_

The crowd clapped and cheered and Bilbo took another swig from his tankard, nearly spilling half of it when Kíli decided to grab him around the waist and start yet another jig to the music. Bofur took a deep breath and started singing again. A dozen or so miners were now atop the tables, thoroughly drunk and somewhat clumsy in their dancing. It brought a smile to Bilbo's lips, their behavior very much like the Tooks and Brandybucks and Proudfoots at Lithe or Yule parties.

_"Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go,_

_To heal my heart and drown my woe._

_Rain may fall and wind may blow,_

_And many miles be still to go,_

_But under a tall tree I will lie,_

_And let the clouds go sailing by._

_But better than rain or rippling brook,_

_Is a mug of beer inside this Took."_

"By Mahâl," panted Bilbo after the song had ended, "I never taught you any of these songs or dances. How?"

Kíli's grin was nothing short of proud and smug. "We were talking a couple months ago and Bofur mentioned how sad and unfair it was that you couldn't dance your favorite childhood dances with anyone. So, we sent letters to your cousin Esmeralda and Hamfast Gamgee and they were kind enough to send a large package of hobbit-y songs, poems, and dance guides."

"I knew there was a reason why I loved you boys so much."

"Oi! What about me?"

"And you too, Bofur. Of course, how very rude of me."

Bilbo could see Thorin and Dís smiling at him from atop the dais, the latter looking just as smug as her youngest son. A few tables over, Frodo was laughing happily in Dáin's arms, jabbering on and on about the songs and the dances and how his mama used to look so very pretty while twirling around with his papa. It actually brought tears to Bilbo's eyes to finally hear Frodo speaking about his deceased parents in such an open, peaceful manner. Compared to several years or even months ago, this improvement was just astonishing. There were no tears or despondent silence now, just boastful joy about how beautiful his mama was in her favorite green and yellow party dress, about how big and strong his papa was in the traditional Brandybuck arm-wrestling contests.

He knew that Primula and Drogo would be so proud of their little boy.

The prince tugged Bilbo into a loose hug and signaled to the musicians again. "Ready for another go around? Or would you prefer some pie instead?"

"I'll show you just how talented we hobbits are at dancing," said Bilbo with a sniff. His toes purposely pinched at Kíli's bare feet and the prince yelped in surprise. "And I think it's you who should be worried about his toes, zundushith."

_"There's an inn, there's an inn, there's a merry old inn_

_Beneath an old grey hill,_

_And there they brew a beer so brown_

_That the Man in the Moon himself came down_

_one night to drink his fill._

Bilbo kicked his feet into the air and twirled round and round and round with his maniacal nephew, who was laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world. A couple more tables were now covered in dancing dwarves, many of them so drunk that they might not have been aware of what they were doing. Bofur was whacked in the head with an especially large bun at one point.

_The ostler has a tipsy cat_

_that plays a five-stringed fiddle;_

_And up and down he saws his bow_

_Now squeaking high, now purring low,_

_now sawing in the middle._

"That sneaky dwarf stole my song," gasped Bilbo. He glared at Kíli from where he was now dancing with Bofur's best foreman, Vanli. "Did you scoundrels bribe poor Hamfast for it?"

Kíli cackled in response and said, "Bofur nicked it from your study seven years ago. Didn't you hear him sing it in Rivendell?"

"I thought that blasted song sounded familiar." Bilbo was spun back towards Kíli and the two linked arms yet again, their bare feet pounding on the table as empty cups went flying everywhere. "I will have words with that dwarf when we're finished here."

_So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,_

_a jig that would wake the dead:_

_He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,_

_While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon:_

_'It's after three!' he said._

As they switched partners, Kíli shouted, "Look at our Frodo!"

The hobbit glanced over at the neighboring table and spotted his little nephew and several other dwarflings dancing upon it. Donel and Frodo had their arms linked together, bare feet kicking up into the air with every beat in the sequence. Dwina and Farina were next to them, tiny skirts flying about as they tried to mimic the miners whom Bofur and the boys had obviously taught. Meanwhile, Dáin stood directly below them, hands at the ready for a tumbling child.

"I believe that the little ones might be stealing the show from us," said Bilbo. "Just look at that footwork."

_They rolled the Man slowly up the hill_

_and bundled him into the Moon,_

_While his horses galloped up in rear,_

_And the cow came capering like a deer,_

_and a dish ran up with the spoon._

"Who knew that our Frodo was such a fine dancer," said Kíli when they were together again. "The lad's a natural."

"Prim was the finest dancer to ever come out of Brandy Hall." The hobbit laughed and took a swig from the tankard that was offered to him. All around Bilbo, the miners were just as pleasantly tipsy and loud in their cheers. "He's his mother's son."

"Then we'll just have to play hobbit-y songs more often." Kíli smirked at him. "Uncle will be very pleased."

_Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;_

_the dog began to roar,_

_The cow and the horses stood on their heads;_

_The guests all bounded from their beds_

_and danced upon the floor._

"I can't believe you wrote this," said Kíli when he finally realized how silly the lyrics were. "It doesn't make any sense."

"That's the point!"

Bilbo kicked an empty cup off the table and watched it conk a large dwarf on the back of the head. He giggled at the sight, which really wasn't appropriate and Bilbo was sure that he'd feel terrible about it tomorrow, but he just couldn't bring himself to care at the moment. Between the music and the songs and the dancing and the rowdy dwarves, Bilbo almost felt like he was back home in the Shire.

"Senseless songs are the best kinds of songs, my lad. You should know this by now."

_With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!_

_the cow jumped over the Moon,_

_And the little dog laughed to see such fun,_

_And the Saturday dish went off at a run_

_with the silver Sunday spoon._

For those few minutes of dancing and laughter, Bilbo forgot all about the animosity and clan rivalries that had been haunting the Lonely Mountain in recent months. He felt so relaxed and free and delighted to share this small part of the Shire's culture with his friends, family, and subjects. The thought of Bofur and the boys going through so much trouble for Frodo and himself was heartwarming and simply confirmed that Bilbo's decision to stay in Erebor was the right choice. It may not have been the sanest choice, as his relatives and neighbors would be all too happy to point out, but it was certainly the best choice for Bilbo and his youngest nephew. And he wasn't about to let anything or anyone come between them and the new life they'd built for themselves in Erebor.

_The round Moon rolled behind the hill_

_as the Sun raised up her head._

_She hardly believed her fiery eyes;_

_For though it was day, to her surprise_

_they all went back to bed!"_

"I think that's enough dancing for now," panted Bilbo. "My poor feet and back feel like they'll fall off at any moment."

"Then allow me to escort you to a more hospitable table, my Consort," said Kíli, chest puffing out in that faux grand manner of his. "I do believe that Mistress Ingri will take good care of you. She's been quite pleased with the materials you negotiated from the Forod and Ulgathig traders for her."

Bilbo was seated with the Master of the Weaver's Guild for the next hour or so, resting his achy feet and discussing the fine, silky fabrics that he was hoping to procure from the next caravan of Easterling merchants. Like Erebor's Consort, Ingri had a deep appreciation for intricate embroidery and the glossy threads that could be used to tell olden legends or familial stories on an outfit. Of all the guild masters, Bilbo probably liked Ingri the most. She kept a tight rein on her apprentices and didn't antagonize Dori just for the hell of it. And that made Bilbo's life a whole lot easier, without a doubt.

"Your training seems to be coming along nicely," said the grey-haired dwarf with a grin. "Hobbits are more durable than I'd anticipated. Clever and witty, too."

"I fear that my Baggins wit was the only thing that saved me from becoming dragon food," admitted Bilbo as he polished off yet another meat pie. They were very good and Hania truly had outdone herself tonight. "Smaug was quite fond of riddles and they proved to be an excellent distraction."

"Sadly, I don't think that wit will save you now." Ingri smiled as Bilbo was snatched up from his chair. "Always a pleasure, Your Highness."

It only took Bilbo a few seconds to realize that he was being led by Kíli to the far side of the Great Hall where games and storytelling stands had been set up. It didn't take Bilbo long to spot Bofur and the mess of attentive children that surrounded him. From the sounds of it, he was telling the tale of their encounter with the three trolls, fingers waving in the air as they gasped and shrieked at different parts. Children always seemed to enjoy the skinning and parasites part the most, Frodo, Donel, and Dwina included. All three of them were situated in the front row, begging a suspenseful Bofur to tell them about the wizard and how the trolls were turned to stone.

"Well, you see, it all started to unravel when one of the trolls realized—and this was the least half-witted of the three, might I remind you—that Bilbo was playing them all for fools and that they should just..."

Bilbo never heard the rest of Bofur's colorful retelling, because a blob of purple tackled him not a moment later. He was lifted off his feet for the second time that night, nose buried in a nest of dirty blonde braids and hair clips. It only took Bilbo a few seconds to realize who was hugging him.

"You're going to crush this poor hobbit's ribs, my dear Tilda!"

The smiling face of Bard's youngest daughter was always a delightful sight, in Bilbo's opinion. He had watched the young girl blossom into a tween over the past five years, still as mischievous, charming, and sweet as the curious child he'd first met in Laketown when the Company had been nearing the end of their psychotic quest. Bilbo always made sure to pay Tilda a visit when he was in Dale, be it for business or pleasure.

"Goodness, I wouldn't want that," said Tilda with a sneaky smile. "After all, that's Kíli's purpose in life."

Kíli picked at his nails. "It's a dreadful hobby. I wouldn't recommend it."

"I didn't know Bard was here," said Bilbo, futilely craning his neck to see over the heads of his taller subjects. "He replied to my letter with an apology and explanation about an unforeseen trade dispute in the lower docks of Esgaroth."

"Aye, it's gotten rather messy down there," sighed Tilda. "But Sigrid and I volunteered to come instead. We arrived a little late due to some paperwork that Sigrid absolutely _had_ to finish before leaving her rooms."

Bilbo smiled. "Someone has to help your father with his paperwork."

"She's just gifted at arithmetic," said Tilda with a pout. "Sig's always been good at compiling numbers and counting coins and measuring trajectories in her head. And that's why she's wiping the stones with your big brother's arse right now."

Both Ereborian royals looked over at the knife-throwing stand. A small crowd had formed around it, three figures standing right in front of the boundary line that rested about twenty feet from the blade-scarred wall. A half-dozen knives rested in the wooden targets, most of them congregated on the red and blue circles near the center of the small planks. Fíli stood off to the left while a wide Broadbeam took up most of the right; a blue-gowned Sigrid stood in the middle, dagger poised and eyes squinted as she readied it for a solid throw. Bilbo watched as Dale's princess released a slow breath and...

Launched the dagger right into the bright yellow dot at the target's center. A few of the dwarves clapped and nodded in admiration.

"Well, I'll be..."

Kíli just sputtered as the princess pulled another knife out of her sleeve. "What the what?! But she never mentioned—"

"That she can throw knives as well as your porcupine-y brother? Well, of course not," said Tilda with a sniff. "Such behavior is frowned upon in the royal courts of men. Sigrid has to act like a lady since she's a princess and all that other poppycock. Doesn't mean that Da never taught her how to protect us when he was away on the barge. Sig has a mean eye and hand with a knife."

"I've known her for seven years and she never bothered to tell me that—"

Thunk!

"She could do that!" Kíli marched over to jab his older brother in the side. "Did you know about this?"

The crown prince smirked and said, "Of course. Amazing shot, isn't she?"

"I feel so betrayed right now, Siggy! You have—"

Thunk!

"Ruined my faith in the lasses of Dale. Tricksters, the whole lot of you. For shame!"

Sigrid smiled at him. "Pot—"

Thunk! Thunk!

"Kettle—"

Thunk! Thunk!

"Black."

Kíli glared at both of them. "I don't know you two anymore. You're dead to me."

"Now that's an interesting turn of events," said Bilbo. He watched Fíli step up to the line, two knives already resting in his hands. "I had no idea your sister was so skilled with a blade. Sigrid's always seemed so..."

"Refined? Aye, that she is." Tilda cocked her head in thought. "But up here in the North, a girl's quite likely to die on the sword, so it's not too strange for a father to train his lasses in basic defense. And Sig takes after Da, anyways. She's got a sharp eye and a grim composure. Supposed to be good traits for knife-throwing and the bow, or so I've heard."

Bilbo patted the young girl on the hand. "You're wise beyond your years, my dear."

"And yet I still don't look them."

The hobbit turned and observed Tilda's pouting face. Now that he actually took the time to look, Bilbo noticed that—by human standards, at least—Tilda did not appear to be any older than a pre-tween and if he remembered correctly, she had celebrated her sixteenth birthday last month. His eyes darted over to Sigrid, who also did not look her twenty-some years of age. The same seemed to apply to Bain, too.

"I had wondered about your father's strange lack of grey hair," quipped Bilbo. He smiled in amusement when Fíli threw two knives at once, obviously showing off to the large crowd that now surrounded them. "And I've heard that some men still live much longer than others, especially those of Gondor and the Dúnedain. Does your family possess a line of their blood?"

Tilda shrugged. "A little, I suppose. Da doesn't speak about it. Sigrid's conducted her own research, so she'd know more about it than Bain or myself."

Curiosity piqued, Bilbo waited a few more minutes for Sigrid and Fíli to finish their knife-throwing competition. Meanwhile, his fingers played with the last Champion Coin that rested inside his pocket, eyes watching the crowd and surrounding stands for the specific person he was looking for. Frodo and his friends came running by a few times, their hands full of the sweets and toys that Bofur and the other vendors had given them.

"Look what Uncle Bofur made for me and Donel," said Frodo, proudly holding up a miniature stone giant. "It's just like your stories. And see, it can even move and this string attaches to the rocks so it can throw them."

"Bofur's work never fails to amaze."

The hobbit laughed when Donel and Frodo all-but tackled Tilda in their enthusiasm to show her their newest toys. Dwina eyed them with exasperation, keeping her own stone giant toy close to her chest and far away from rowdy boys. Bilbo was still playing with the coin in his pocket when Sigrid approached them.

"You wished to speak with me, Bilbo?"

"Ah, yes, your sister and I were having an interesting conversation," said Bilbo as he smacked Kíli's hands away from Frodo's cookies, "And I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit more about it."

"Of course."

Bilbo accompanied Dale's oldest princess to a nearby table that was still laden with foods, happily munching on the honey cakes and blueberry tarts that were likely the work of Hania's fantastic pastry crew. He explained his earlier conversation to Sigrid, inquiring about her family's lineage for the first time since he'd known them. Bilbo tended not to worry about bloodlines or heritage or any of those other silly things that men and elves and dwarves seemed to be so obsessed with; he much preferred to judge people based on their actions and character. Yes, there were some traits that appeared to be inherent to certain hobbit families, but even the Tooks produced an adventure-fearing faunt every once in a while. And some Bracegirdles could be ridiculously clever when they weren't obfuscating stupidity. Too bad Lobelia hadn't inherited the charming friendliness that predominantly ran in that particular bloodline.

"Are you alright, Bilbo?" asked Sigrid when she saw him shiver in fright.

"Oh, I'm quite fine, my dear." He popped another tart into his mouth and patted his stomach in satisfaction. "Just remembering a particularly unpleasant relative of mine."

Sigrid smiled knowingly. "The one who was always trying to make off with your silver?"

"It seems that everyone remembers that story particularly well," mused Bilbo around a third honey cake. They were so very good. "Terribly sorry about the interruption. You were talking about your grandmothers, I believe? From Gondor?"

"My Da's family has some Númenórean blood running through it. Not much, but a little," Sigrid explained. "Most of my paternal great-grandmothers were Gondorian nobles or princesses, later-born daughters whose families probably didn't know what to do with them. I don't know how such things work in the Shire, but in the cities of men, it's quite common for wealthy or noble families to arrange marriages to secure an alliance with other families or countries. Dale and Gondor usually had good relations, so those marriages were used to maintain political and economic stability between the kingdoms."

"Will you be facing such a marriage yourself?" Bilbo certainly hoped not; arranged marriages seemed so utilitarian and emotionless in his mind. "I can't picture Bard handing you or Tilda over to perfect strangers in a foreign country."

"I don't think so," assured Sigrid when Fíli, Kíli, and the children all looked at her with wide eyes. "I doubt the Gondorian nobility or its Steward would even accept someone with as little Númenórean blood as me. There's a chance that my siblings or myself might live a few decades longer than the average man, but the Gondorians would not like those odds, I can assure you."

Bilbo had never thought about the interactions between the Middle-Men and those of Númenórean descent before, although he knew that many Rangers of the North shared both lineages in their bloodlines. He had heard stories in Bree and Hardbottle about some Rangers living over fifteen or twenty decades, which was an age unheard of even for hobbits.

"And your grandmothers?"

Sigrid shrugged. "Only a handful of them died before the fall of Dale and Erebor. As far as the genealogy and Da seems to know, not a single member of my family has died of old age in well over two hundred years. Dragons and fevers and orcs seem to be a common problem for us."

"But the ones who did? Before Smaug's reign?"

"One of my great-grandmothers was over two hundred years when she passed on," said Sigrid. "But she was pure Gondorian nobility, I believe. They only married her to the Lord of Dale because she was the family's tenth child and Gondor was in desperate need of trade at the time. The same seems to apply to all of my other grandmothers as well."

"That's not very old," said Donel with a proud sniff. "My great-uncle is nearly three hundred years old. He's too old to even walk, according to Amad."

Frodo flicked him on the head. "Sigrid's not a dwarf, though."

"No, I'm most certainly not," said the princess. She rubbed at her smooth face and small nose, showing the young boys just how human she was. "Nary a whisker in sight, I fear. And look, even my arms are mostly hairless! Hair too blonde to even see it."

"I'm hairless, too," said Frodo with great pride. "Just on my head and feet. See?"

"And what fine hair it is." Sigrid petted his foot fuzz appreciatively, moving on to Donel's whiskers when he let out a jealous huff. "I'd compliment Kíli's, but he doesn't appear to have grown any yet."

"I've been insulted!" And then Erebor's youngest prince toppled over the table. "Owww..."

Currin smirked toothily. "Game over."

"You've no appreciation for the finer aspects of dwarven hair, my Lady." Fíli had his arms crossed and made a show of looking very affronted. "A robust array of whiskers and braids is essential to a dwarf's—"

Sigrid just flicked at his mustache braids and turned her attention back to Bilbo. "Anything else? This has become quite the lesson on my family's history, it seems."

"We like story time," assured Frodo. "Tell us another!"

The princess paused for a moment before Fíli goaded her into another story about the third Lord of Dale's wife, who apparently was quite fond of Dorwinion peppers and refused to speak with any dwarf not willing to eat them. This tradition had lasted for over twelve decades and was still a common source of diplomatic hilarity between Erebor and Dale to this day. Many a dwarf had fallen victim to Lady Merrill's Revenge, as they liked to call it.

"How'd you learn all this?" Bilbo asked. "Was it passed down your family or did Laketown have a large library?"

"Ori and Fíli were kind enough to allow me access to Erebor's archives on Dale," said Sigrid. She narrowly dodged Kíli's flailing arms as he continued to participate in a drinking contest with Currin, her brothers, and several other dwarves. "As you already know, the library in Dale was completely destroyed and, well..."

"It's only right that a lass know about her family," said Fíli with a firm nod. "And all the texts were in Westron, anyways. No harm done."

Bilbo was about to agree with his oldest nephew when Currin snatched up Kíli's drunken form and flopped him down on an unoccupied table behind them. Five seconds later, Bifur was sitting next to him, a wide array of toys laid out for the children.

"Good evening, Bifur. What do we have here?"

The dwarf held up a small doe that was carved from dark oak, its eyes filled with green agate and its fur laced with small chips of silver. Sigrid accepted the gift with a bright smile, openly admiring the delicate toy with as much care as one would a newborn infant. Bifur's fingers started to move through the signs of Iglishmêk a moment later, Fíli leaning over to translate for Sigrid.

 _A thank you gift for the horse,_ signed the toymaker. _He plays well with the other ponies. Keeps Molly company._

"You're very welcome," said Sigrid. "And that's good to hear. He was originally supposed to be given to Lord Dorian's son, but that boy is an atrocious brat to anything that comes into his possession. Have you chosen a name yet?"

Bifur said an unfamiliar Khuzdul word.

"The closest equivalent I can think of for that," said Fíli with a thoughtful frown, "Would be the Westron term for shale."

Sigrid smiled. "That's a very good name, Master Bifur."

A whole pile of outstanding, if slightly grotesque and frightening, toys were passed around the table to the ten or so children that had gathered to hear Sigrid's stories. Bilbo himself received a rather cranky looking hedgehog, which was one of the many new designs that Bifur had been working on in recent months. As always, Bilbo was amazed at the intense detail that Bifur put into his toys, each of the hedgehog's spines poking and pricking at Bilbo's skin just like the real animal. He barely noticed when Bofur sat down, attention focused on the small agates that formed the toy's miniature eyes.

"My cousin's latest masterpiece," crowed Bofur, lightly touching the fine toy after he'd snatched up Frodo and placed the faunt in his lap. "Absolutely brilliant, aye?"

"He has an amazing eye for detail," said Sigrid as she smacked Fíli's hands away from her doe. He pouted up at her, but the princess resisted. "Stop that. I won't have you or your brother running off with another one of Master Bifur's gifts. And don't you dare rope Tilda or Bain into your shenanigans again."

Fíli went cross-eyed at the finger poking his giant honker of a nose. "Now there's no need for poking! I made him return it."

"Here, Bifur, have a blueberry tart. I know they're your favorite," said Bilbo. He always relished when it wasn't him giving Fíli or Kíli a thorough scolding; it was nice not to be the prudish uncle every once in a while. "What do you have there?"

 _A miner sifting for gold_ , signed Bifur. He held up the little miner, who had a floppy hat on his head and a small pan in his hands. _Modeled on Bofur. His stone-sense is very good at finding gold and silver and gemstones._

"The likeness is extraordinary." Bilbo leaned forward for a closer look. "You even included his earring and scarf!"

Bifur puffed up with pride and then pushed a small switch on the toy's back. To Bilbo's amazement, the little pan started to move back and forth, exactly like a miner would in their search for gold in a mountain stream or dirt-filled pile of rock. The miner's hat even appeared to wiggle a little bit. It was that last part that speared Bilbo into action, his fingers swiftly dropping the second and last Champion Coin into the miner's sifting pan. Everyone around them went silent...

"You don't have to if you don't want to," assured Bilbo, his fingers nervously tapping on the table. He popped another tart into his mouth. "I know it's asking quite a bit and I could choose another if you—"

And then he was swept up into a tight hug, Bifur's forehead gently bumping against his own, ever wary of the axe embedded in his head. Bilbo could hear him speaking, but still had no idea what Bifur was saying. He turned to Bofur. Or he tried to, at least.

"He accepts," said Bofur with a giant grin. "My cousin's the Consort's Champion! Ale all around!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, peeps, almost everything after this chapter will be brand new, so don't be surprised when you see stuff that wasn't in the last posting. And may I just say that I really like Bard's family. For being a terribly grim man, he seems to be a great father and his kids aren't afraid to throw crockery and knives and furniture at ugly-butt orcs. And I hope everyone likes the Champions I've selected; I thought two non-royal and frequently underestimated Company members would be best, both due to politics and the element of surprise. And a lot of readers made some very convincing arguments for these two in particular.
> 
> And for those who are curious, the songs I used are all canonical Tolkien hobbit songs: _The Green Dragon_ ; _Ho! Ho! Ho! To the Bottle I Go!_ ; and _The Man in the Moon Stayed Up Too Late_. Bilbo himself actually wrote the last song. Now, let the honor duels and punishments commence...


	7. Chapter VII

The feast was as loud and rowdy as every other dwarven celebration that Bilbo had attended in the last seven years. Thankfully, there were no food fights this time around due to the continued scarcity of many items and the physical presence of Erebor's Consort. Bilbo didn't tolerate such wasteful habits amongst his family or his people. Despite the enormous strides that had been made in the reconstruction of the Lonely Mountain and Dale, lack of adequate or diverse food was still a very real problem. The desolation of Smaug was slowly becoming fertile again, but Bard's farmers could only work so fast and produce so much in a single year. Because of this, Bilbo and the Royal Council had had to figure out how to supplement their short food supplies with foreign trade, namely with Dorwinion, Mirkwood, and the skin-changers. Some trade was now coming in from the eastern and southern lands, but Bilbo was wary to rely on them for anything besides the most basic supplies.

"I think we need to keep our options open," said Bilbo. He handed a blueberry tart to Frodo and snuggled the little boy close. "And so long as we keep our relationship strict and trade-oriented, I don't see why such an arrangement wouldn't be beneficial to Erebor. The Weaver's Guild was very impressed with the selection that the merchants from Nûrad and Relmether brought with them."

"They're not to be trusted," huffed one of the older Council members. "We've had nothing but difficulties with Easterlings in the past. Shifty and greedy, the whole lot of them."

Bilbo fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I'm not proposing an attempt at official treaties or alliances with any of them. However, trading with tinkers and merchants from the east has never harmed Erebor or Dale. And quite frankly, our supplies in nearly every craft, guild, and granary are far more limited than I'm comfortable with. We need any kind of trade we can get at the moment."

"Gondor's obstinacy isn't helping matters, either," said Balin. He was seated beside Bilbo, head ducking just in time to avoid an empty tankard. "They're leery to trade with us or Dale, and I don't see that stance changing until we can export more luxury goods down the Anduin."

"Their new Steward is a fine piece of work," grumbled Glóin. "The lads from Esgaroth were not impressed with him during their last trip down the river."

"Hence, why we need as much foreign trade as possible, especially since Mirkwood has exhausted several sections of the eastern forest in trying to feed us," Bilbo reasoned. "We can sell the dyes, threads, fabrics, and crafts from the Easterlings at an excellent price in Gondor, Methelburg, and the southern cities. The Tyran merchants from Desdursyton were particularly well stocked last year. And the elves were quite eager to purchase those whale bone figurines that they brought from the Gulf of Ûtum."

"You've been hibernating in the archives again, haven't you?"

"Not since last winter," assured Bilbo with a smile. He was quite fond of Master Dokor, who was one of the Council's most open-minded members. "But someone needs to know about our eastern neighbors and I refuse to ignore potential trade agreements. These merchants only care about the coins in their purses and the wares we have to barter with them. Right, Nori?"

"Aye."

Bilbo wasn't quite sure where the spymaster was hiding, but an affirmative from Nori was usually good enough to sway the Royal Council on matters of trade and hospitality. And even though Bilbo was leery of the Easterlings in general, he wasn't about to overlook the valuable wares of wayward traders and tinkers. At least two-thirds of Erebor's mines were still suffering from structural damage and Bilbo needed to feed his people any way possible.

"That dwarf is a menace."

The hobbit sighed. "No, he's just paranoid and has a bad habit of hiding in plain sight. Are you going to come out and help me, Nori?"

"Nope."

"And this is why so many people are attempting to court you. The mystique brings out their curiosity."

Several of the Council members snorted in genuine amusement. Despite being rarely seen, Nori was quite infamous throughout Erebor and the surrounding lands. The middle Ri brother came and went like the wind, which gave him a dastardly air that dwarven lads and lasses swooned over. His good looks didn't help matters, either. Bilbo liked to blame it on Nori's fancy beard and hairstyles.

"Such gossip doesn't suit you at all, my Consort." Bilbo felt something flick at his ear. "Now, back to the Easterling issue..."

"These men aren't Wainriders, Master Gherok. I've spoken with the Stonefoot delegates and they've assured me that such an arrangement is quite common in Ered Ceren and the Yellow Mountains as well. Politics and sovereignty doesn't figure into the matter: only trade." Bilbo felt a tankard go flying past his head and turned to glare at the dwarves who were dancing on the table behind him. "It doesn't even have to be anything concrete. All we have to do is open our markets to them whenever they're passing through and I am confident that such rare items would help Erebor prosper in the future."

"Our Consort has a point," said Balin. "We've had no trouble with any of them so far, and I don't see why we'd have to worry about that changing in the coming years. They seem to only be concerned with their purses and their carts, something that we dwarves of Durin's Folk know all too well."

"My wife praised their wood-cut jewelry," Glóin added. "With a few gems and metals thrown into the mix, they'd probably sell in Dale and the southern cities."

An elderly dwarf nodded. "Aye, my niece was quite taken with some of their earrings as well."

"I think that just about settles it then," said Balin with a wide smirk. He placed several papers on the table and indicated which sections of Erebor's and Dale's marketplaces would best serve the eastern traders. "Now, the western stalls would be best for those with..."

With a nod to Balin and Glóin, the hobbit excused himself after that, content to allow the four Council members to think on the arguments he had put forth. Frodo just sat in his uncle's arms, attention fixated on the newest toy he'd received from Bofur and Bifur. The lad wasn't getting any shorter or lighter, that was for damn sure, but Bilbo still enjoyed carrying him from time to time. Within a few short years, Frodo would be much too large for him to do this with; although Thorin, Dwalin, and every other dwarf in the Company had assured him that they were more than willing to pick up the slack.

"Ah, there you are, little one."

Bilbo turned around and found a shifty-looking Dáin directly behind him. "Please don't tell me you're hiding from Dís again? I refuse to protect you from her wrath this time."

"Why does everyone always think I've done something wrong when I try to talk to them?"

"Probably because you're as mischievous as Kíli on a good day," said Bilbo. "And you've got that shifty look about you. I don't like that shifty look. It always means that one of you Durins is up to something. What is it?"

"To be fair, it's not me that's up to something. Well, this time, at least."

He didn't object when Dáin led him to the far side of the hall where Bofur's little story-telling stand was situated. Dori, Bifur, Ori, and Bard's daughters were there as well. The last two looked just as puzzled as Bilbo, which was never a good thing. Sigrid was a very assertive young lady and she could be downright vicious—in that cold, detached way that women of all races seemed to favor—when left out of the loop by the men around her. Bilbo strongly suspected that she was taking lessons from Dís; they acted far too alike for it to be a coincidence. Or Currin...

Or Tauriel. Actually, those two were just as vicious as his sister-in-law when they put their minds to it. And that was probably why they got along so well, too. Vicious female warriors whose favorite hobbies involved disemboweling orcs and goblins between second breakfast and afternoon tea. Bilbo was always wary when those girls got together. It often resulted in brutal sparring matches, dead deer, and antagonizing the royals of any racial variety.

"Do you have any notion of what's happening?" asked Sigrid as a hush fell over the hall. "Fíli and Kíli skittered off like their backsides were on fire."

"I haven't the faintest idea."

The Great Hall was completely silent now, all eyes fixated on the raised dais at the far end of the chamber. The King Under the Mountain and his heirs stood atop it, the only female member of their immediate family looming in the background. Bilbo watched with bated breath as Currin and her grandmother stepped up and stood next to the King, their posture rigid and golden eyes as cold as the northern plains they hailed from. They both towered over Erebor's royals, Nymeria easily dwarfing the dwarves by well over three feet, although it didn't seem to bother Bilbo's family in the slightest. If there was any foreign, non-dwarven ally that Thorin and Dís truly trusted, it was this particular bunch of extra-toothy and perpetually-nude skin-changers.

"Would the leaders of the Blackfoot and Firebeard delegations step forward," ordered Thorin. Nothing about his tone was kind nor hospitable. "And bring the assailants with you. It is they who must stand before Mother Nymeria's judgment and regain their family's honor."

"Maybe he's just gonna behead them and be done with it?"

"Bofur!"

"It's a possibility. And a good one, too."

Bilbo felt a small tug on his right hand and turned to see Glyn and another young skin-changer standing next to him. The latter child strongly resembled Currin as well, so he assumed that she was yet another cousin in the wolves' enormous family. Bifur had his hands on both children's shoulders, the wily toymaker's familiarity with them breeding a fierce protective streak that Bilbo had factored into his choice of Bifur as the second Champion. With a soft smile, Bilbo took the young boy's hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"I do believe that my granddaughter's judgment will be most effective in this particular situation," said Nymeria with a cruel smirk. "She knows this mountain, its people, and her cousin far better than I, so it seems prudent that she be the one to bestow our people's punishment."

"Very well." Thorin gestured to the spot beside him. "Sister Currin?"

The skin-changer stepped forward and glared down at the dwarves before her. If they had not attacked Bilbo and the children, he probably would've felt quite bad for them, because Currin's wrath was never a pleasant nor painless experience. Just like Beorn, the skin-changers of the far north lived by a different moral code than those who were born in the cities of men, dwarves, and elves. They respected nature in all its forms, but could be crueler and less predictable than a winter storm. And Currin was one of the best examples of a mildly psychotic skin-changer, in Bilbo's opinion.

"Lords Fifnir and Rukuhl of Var's Folk, and Lord Gronin of Úri's Folk..."

And there was that intimidating glare that Bilbo strived to never be on the other receiving of, especially where pups or large slabs of meat were concerned. She resembled a jackal more than a wolf, golden eyes gleaming with a sadistic passion that sent a shiver down Bilbo's spine. Yes, the skin-changers were excellent friends and allies, but the look on all of their faces—including the children and Mother Nymeria herself—were animalistic, a testament to the beast-like instincts that were always hiding just beneath the surface.

"You attacked a member of my pack. And a pup at that." Currin looked like she was going to maim them herself, but Bilbo could see her visibly rein in those emotions. "Just like dwarves, we do _not_ take kindly to our young being attacked under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

The three dwarves nodded their heads. Then the delegation leaders did as well. And see, Bilbo was right. Utterly terrifying.

"By our laws and with King Thorin's permission—of which I've already obtained, I can assure you—I would be well within my rights to separate your heads from your equally worthless bodies," growled Currin. She stepped forward and glowered down at them. "However, I think a _different_ punishment would better suit this situation. And it would be foolish of me to decapitate you before Consort Bilbo and his Champions can hand you your asses in the arena."

Dori face-palmed at this. But honestly, what did he expect? Skin-changers were crude at the best of times.

"Now, listen carefully, dwarves. Every year, several members of the northern packs venture deep into the Barl Syrnac to retrieve a specific breed of mushrooms and lichens. The former can be found amongst the evergreen forests of the coastal taiga; the latter growing along the cliffs and coves of the southern Ukal Sêj. These two ingredients are essential to our medicines and are quite effective, as I'm sure Master Óin would gladly describe for you."

She gestured to the side and Fíli came forward, a large map unrolling so that it could be presented to the assailants and their delegations. Currin pointed at the smudgy peak that signified the Lonely Mountain, her finger moving to the northeast and trailing even higher into the Northern Waste. The sound of hushed murmurs could be heard around the hall. Every dwarf knew where Currin expected the assailants to venture...

"You will head northeast through the mountain pass that lies between the Iron Hills and the Withered Heath. I would advise staying to the south, along the northern foothills of Emyn Engrin. Don't look so surprised. Smaug may very well be the last great drake of our world, but lesser members of his kind still remain. We can smell their stench as far east as the Cirith Auris and Talath Oiohelka."

"What is she talking about?" demanded Dori. "There are _more_ of them?!"

Ori cringed when this question was directed at him. "Well, I've read about several others, but it didn't specify about their locations or deaths. I assumed that Smaug was the last drake of the north."

"I've suspected there were more for quite some time," Dáin admitted. "It's one of the reasons why I refused to join my cousin's fool quest against the Golden Drake. The last thing my people need is another dragon coming down upon our halls."

"You lot can find another burglar next time," said Bilbo. "I'm _never_ speaking with a dragon again. My heart and nerves won't withstand it."

"Why are dragons so attracted to us, anyways?"

"Because you dwarves hoard gold and shiny objects like they're the greatest thing since sliced cheese," snapped Bilbo. He honestly couldn't believe how thick dwarves could be when it came to their precious metals and gemstones. "And then you build three of your greatest kingdoms within a hundred miles of their breeding grounds and lands of creation. That's a travesty waiting to happen."

"Point taken."

"Not our brightest moment," Bofur conceded. "But all the big, nasty ones are gone now, right?"

Sigrid snorted. "I don't think Da would agree to slaying another one of those terrible wyrms. He'd probably retire to Beorn's cottage before manning the windlance again. Or Dorwinion. He's quite fond of their wine and peppers now."

"Tis a lovely cottage," said Bofur. "Gigantic bumblebees and walking dogs, but still a very lovely place."

Bilbo pinched him.

A frenzy started amongst the crowd and it was only the loud snarl of Mother Nymeria that silenced them. Thorin inclined his head, the subtle movement telling Bilbo that his husband had already discussed this matter with the Lady of the North herself. If he hadn't, Bilbo was certain that the Dwarf-King would've been spitting fire right now. Very few things could set off Thorin's temper faster than a dragon.

"The demise of Smaug has cowed his kin into the deepest parts of the heath and its darkest caverns. The cold drakes and wingless wyrms are far too busy fighting amongst themselves to risk encountering the Dragon-Slayer himself." The elderly skin-changer aimed a knowing smile at Sigrid and Tilda. "They will not emerge from their desolate, burned out kingdoms any time soon. And if they did, the peoples of Dale, Erebor, and the Northern Waste would be ready this time. No lesser wyrm would survive the wrath of the Black Arrows of Dale and the Lonely Mountain."

Tilda giggled. "The dragons are scared of Da."

"It's a strange concept," agreed her sister. "Great, ice-breathing beasts, terrified of our pigeon-fearing father."

All of the dwarves, hobbits, and wolves looked at her.

"They have a horrid habit of pooping atop his head," said Sigrid with a shrug. "It's quite unpleasant. And difficult to clean without the proper oils."

"Da uses them for target practice."

"Note to self: never allow Hagi or Zaluk anywhere near Dale," murmured Bofur. "Those are Bifur's pigeons. Delightful chaps."

Tilda sniffed. "I prefer the ravens, anyways."

Bilbo released a sigh of relief when Nymeria's speech seemed to pacify his subjects. The last thing they needed right now was a bunch of dwarves running off in a bloodthirsty conniption fit to slay an unknown number of dragons in the far north. That would _not_ end well. And Erebor would be short several hundred dwarves, too. As far as Bilbo was concerned, so long as the lesser drakes left them alone, complete avoidance on both sides was the best solution.

"Well, now that we've established that there will be no dragon-slaying in the immediate future," drawled Currin as she started poking at the map again, "Stay to the _south_ of the mountains. And the Frozen Forest. You _really_ don't want to go in there. It'll make Mirkwood look like a beautiful, summertime picnic. Many good wolves have lost their tails or their lives in there."

And there was that sadistic grin again.

"I assume you're well aware of where the Barl Syrnac are after that?"

The leader of the Blacklock delegation huffed with indignation. "Every dwarf knows about the realm of the Hollow Spires and Mirror Halls. And now orc spawn and dragon filth live within the sacred halls of Kheledkhizdin. It's an unforgivable affront to our Stiffbeard brothers."

Nymeria's eyes narrowed. "Sadly, those halls must remain that way, Lord Nalrak. I grieve for Thúlin's Folk, but there's also a strong possibility that Gostir still resides within the central mountains and its seaside coves."

"You did not mention that particular fact," said Thorin. "What other wyrms am I not aware of?"

"Peace, my friend." The skin-changer elder placed a hand on Thorin's shoulder. "Your kin will not be venturing anywhere near the cold drake's domain. Only fools would dare to roam those accursed lands. My people avoid them like the Great Plague."

"I fear that you underestimate our kin, Mother. We would not be here if fools were not among us."

"Despite your reservations, King Thorin, it was the fire of ancient dragons that allowed these mushrooms and lichens to flourish. The scorched ground of old is far more fertile than any other in the north. To this day, dragon fire continues to produce medicinal ingredients that are beyond any others in existence." She gave him a sad smile. "My kin have hoarded it for a very long time. Even from the ice elves and men of Dyr."

Thorin nodded in acquiesce. "Very well. Continue."

Currin gestured to the Firebeard and Blacklock delegations. "As per our laws and customs, three members of each assailant's family are allowed to accompany them on their journey of repentance. I advise you to choose carefully. Even the southern foothills and coastal taiga of the Barl Syrnac are dangerous at the best of times. And the men of Dyr and its forests will not be forthcoming with information, either."

"These ventures have claimed many of our kin's lives over the centuries," warned Nymeria. "But the medicine is essential to the continued survival of our dearest members: newborn pups. Master Óin is confident that with these ingredients, he will be able to save the lives of many Ereborian infants and dwarflings."

An excited twitter poured through the crowd, but most especially the womenfolk. With Erebor's reconstruction and food shortages, carrying and birthing had been incredibly dangerous in recent years. Between the expertise of elven and skin-changer healers, Óin and his staff had been able to save most of Erebor's premature or sickly dwarflings, but it was still a precarious situation at times. Medications were running low yet again and Bilbo wasn't sure if he'd be able to negotiate another shipment of the most vital ingredients before winter's arrival.

"Lords Fifnir, Rukuhl, and Gronin owe a steep debt to the children of Erebor and my pack," said Currin. "And they will repay this debt by journeying through the perilous lands of the north to retrieve life-saving medicine for these same younglings. The children of Erebor and Dale deserve the same chance at life as my family's pups."

"What if they do not return?" asked a female dwarf. "What then?"

"Our people will, as we always have, make the journey ourselves," assured Nymeria. "It is dangerous, no doubt, but the results are worth the risk."

"We are in the late stages of spring right now and the weather has been very mild this year." Currin gestured for Erebor's prince to present the map to the delegations. "You will leave at the end of this week. If you set a brisk pace and take my kin's advice, then you should arrive in Forest of Dyr by mid-summer. After that, it should take you less than a week to reach the taiga and forests where the Dyra mushrooms and purple lichens grow. Gather as much as you are able to carry and then return to Erebor. The men of Dyr and the Lossoth will neither harm nor bother you."

"But avoid the Norsu if you encounter any of them," added Rowan from the crowd. "They'll trample you faster than you can blink."

It was Firebeard who asked, "What's a Norsu?"

"An enormous, white, long-haired Oliphant," said Currin. "They're a rare sight and quite bad-tempered, but a few Lossoth tribes have managed to tame them. However, I'd advise you to avoid the wild ones at all costs."

"If her intent's to scare the fleas out of them," Bofur murmured into Bilbo's ear, "Then she's going a mighty fine job of it."

Sigrid snorted. "I'd be terrified if I were in their shoes."

The crowd finally started to disperse a few minutes later, the dwarves all muttering amongst themselves about the assigned punishment, lesser dragons, and the possibility of newer and more effective medications for their children. And despite the intense fear that most dwarves had of dragons, the promise of something that could save the lives of so many newborns and dwarflings was too important to pass up. Compared to the men of Dale and the skin-changers, Erebor's dwarfling population was minuscule at best, with barely one child for every twenty adults. Infant mortality rates were far too high and something needed to be done about it in the near future. Maybe this was the way...

"Well, that was quite disappointing. I didn't make anyone soil themselves. Or scream in terror and bugger off."

"By the Valar," gasped Bilbo. "Don't do that!"

Currin looked at him with pity. "Your lives must be so boring. No sense of smell or hearing whatsoever."

With a sigh of exasperation, Bilbo turned around and glared at the smirking skin-changer. She had Glyn tucked up against her side, clawed fingers playing with an unruly curl behind the boy's pointy ear. The gesture was so reminiscent of Bilbo's own habits with Frodo that it punched the breath straight out of him. And at that moment, Bilbo felt an odd kinship with Currin.

"How can you be sure that they won't flee?"

Currin picked at her elongated claws. "If the dwarves go to the west, they'll encounter a rather irate Tauriel and her band of merry arrow-lovers. The Captain of Mirkwood has a particular soft spot for our darling Glyn. If they go to the east, they'll run into my kinsmen and the men of Dyr. Neither will be pleasant company, I can assure you. And the south isn't an option, so north it is. Personally, I hope they go east. Tauriel's been itching for some target practice in recent months. And Leggy-dear is always willing to take a few potshots at those of the vertically challenged variety."

"...I do believe we've been insulted," said Bofur, "And complimented at the same time. Bravo."

"Ha! I like this dwarf. He's entertaining and funny and makes silly toys." The wolf cackled and smacked Bofur on the shoulder so hard that he almost went flying across the room. "And there's another one, too, right?"

Bifur tentatively raised his hand.

"And I like you, too. My cousins are quite pleased with your toys," said Currin as she delivered another shoulder smack. "But enough of that; Bilbo, my grandmother and I will be in the throne room tomorrow evening. Just before the eighteenth bell, I believe. I apologize for springing this information on you so suddenly, but I preferred a good bit of discretion for the delivery."

"Well, it certainly wasn't what I was expecting," Bilbo admitted. His nephew was dozing on his shoulder now. "And I assume you came up with this all by your lonesome?"

Glyn snorted. "Her mind's a scary place."

"Our kind like to use more...inventive punishments for those who harm our pups. We'll just have to wait and see if those dwarves can survive the harsh and wicked shores of the Utter North." Currin's smirk was downright cruel. "But we can talk about that tomorrow, my friend. I do believe it's about time for these pups to be sent to their dens and beds. Sleep well, everyone."

And with that, she and the remaining skin-changers were gone.

"So, basically, they're sending the three bumpkins and their merry band of volunteers up into the coldest and most uncharted mountains of Arda to retrieve some mushrooms and lichens that could save the lives of our children? With cold-drakes and snow-oliphants and who knows what else nipping at their frosty heels?" Bofur twirled his mustache in a thoughtful manner. "I like it. Simple, easy to remember, and quite useful as well."

"I think the lass did a good job of scaring the delegation members, too."

Bilbo looked over at where Dáin was pointing. His three assailants and their families were huddled around each other near the dais, all of them trying to speak with the King of Erebor at once. The hobbit could see why Thorin had not wanted him and Frodo up there with them. The last thing any of them needed—especially Frodo and Glyn—was a bunch of angry dwarves jumping all over the victims.

"She just wants them to become dragon chow. Or korsu chow." Kíli slung an arm over his uncle's shoulders. "Or anything chow. And it'd save you from having to fight in the arena, Uncle Bilbo."

"I fear that the Valar won't be that kind to me, zundushith."

"You've been married to our dearest uncle for far too long," said Kíli with a dramatic pout. "He's turning you into a brooding pessimist. Just like him!"

"Truly, my dearest nephew." Thorin stood behind Kíli, his large hand tightly squeezing the prince's shoulder. "I never knew that you felt so strongly about my broodiness, as you like to call it. Please, tell me more?"

"Ah, ummm, I'm going to check on...ummm, Fíli needs me to rescue him! From those dastardly Firebeards...over there. C'mon, my beautiful princesses, lets save him!"

"But what about—"

Sigrid and Kíli grabbed their youngest accomplice under the armpits and made a desperate run for it. They nearly toppled over a half-dozen drunken dwarves in the process, but Bilbo had a deep appreciation for Sigrid's remarkable ability to sprint in such long, full skirts. No wonder she was such good friends with Erebor's princes; Sigrid was just as evil and devious as her male counterpart.

"I think our worst nightmare just came true." Bilbo gaped in horror. "There are four of them now. Maybe _five_..."

Dori gently steered the hobbit and Frodo towards a tired yet highly amused Thorin. "I do believe that our burglar's had enough for tonight. Best to tuck him and the little one into bed, my King."

"The mead and food and dragon tales appear to have exhausted you, âzyungel." The Dwarf-King accepted the burden and placed a gentle kiss atop his hobbits' heads. Frodo reached out and happily snuggled into his larger uncle's hair. "The other children, Dori?"

"I'll be returning them to their parents in a moment," said the teamaker. Donel and Dwina were both dozing his arms. "Come, Ori. I can see Thana and Dwina's uncle over at the arm-wrestling tables. Will you be needing me to watch Frodo tomorrow evening? I should be done with my rounds by the fifteenth bell, but I can delegate some of my newer clients to Gwin and Malí if you need me to pick him up early."

"That won't be necessary," said Thorin. "I've already wrangled the boys into watching him."

With that said, the dwarves around them dispersed into various directions, only Dáin remaining behind to give Bilbo and Frodo a goodnight bear-hug. And then he tried to pull Thorin into a loose hug as well, but the King prickled up like a porcupine and threatened to disembowel Dáin for the second time that evening. Frodo just pulled on his goofy uncle's fluffy beard, which was their shared way of saying goodbye.

Bilbo thought it was adorable.

"I swear, that dwarf is _the_ most annoying beast to ever walk these lands," grumbled Thorin. "We should've sent him after Smaug instead of you. Dáin could've chatted with the fat slug about perfect emerald and sapphire cuts before finally hugging him to death."

"A most fitting end for a great wyrm."

Thorin cuddled his husband and nephew close as they exited the Great Hall. "It would seem that Currin has bought us valuable time, sanghivasha. It will likely take them four months to make the full journey. Perhaps even longer, depending on the weather."

"If they survive it, you mean."

"Considering the circumstances, I would prefer if they don't," said Thorin without a hint of remorse. "However, your training will continue until winter arrives. We cannot take any chances. Our burglar and his Champions must be ready for the arena."

"My muscles are quivering with fear. And I mean it. They're literally quivering right now."

"I can solve that."

The King Under the Mountain swept his Consort up into his arms, smirking unrepentantly when Bilbo mumbled about bridal-position and his husband being a silly buffoon. In contrast, Frodo just settled on his smaller uncle's stomach, not at all adverse to being carried around by the dwarves in his life. Bilbo huffed and resigned himself to his fate. Thorin could terribly silly and romantic when he put his mind to it.

"You're so ridiculous."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love writing vindictive female characters, and Currin's a wolf, so it seems to fit. And sadly, chapters will be much slower in coming after the next two weeks. I've been awarded a massive research scholarship to Vietnam and China to study the newest strain of avian flu that's been popping up there, and I'll be taking the first few months of that trip at the end of this month. I'll still be able to update periodically, but my research and getting access to the biohazard labs comes first right now. However, I hope that you guys will be able to enjoy the chapters I am able to post.
> 
> And holy shit, the research! So much Tolkien canon and geography and magical creatures to work with. Also, according to Tolkien himself, Smaug was _not_ the last dragon. He was the last _great_ dragon, but not the last dragon overall. There's still an unknown number of _lesser_ dragons running around Middle-Earth at the end of _LOTR_. None of them are as great as Smaug or Glaurung or Ancalagon, though.


	8. Chapter VIII

The next two months passed in an endless haze of training, eating, more training, hiding in a broom closet to get away from Thorin and Dwalin, more eating, hiding in the old archives to escape _all_ dwarves, and even more training. Thankfully, Bilbo was able to work in his garden and perform the most basic of Consort duties on the weekends, both of which were a wonderful break from weapons sessions. And the hobbit knew that he was somewhat improving because Dwalin told him so—and Dwalin never said anything nice unless he really meant it—and Fíli had stopped telling him to topple down the stairs or get himself kidnapped in Dale to avoid further training—or torture, as Bilbo liked to call it—in the arena. But in truth, it was becoming more and more difficult to keep up with the dwarves and Bilbo despaired about finishing in proper fighting condition.

Or what Thorin deemed as fighting condition. The dwarf was an absolute machine on the field, making Bilbo feel completely and utterly inadequate with his tiny elven sword, pudgy stomach, and inability to execute a decisive barrel roll. He had collided with a nearby wall when he'd tried that last one. Thorin's sigh of exasperation could have been heard in Dale or even Mirkwood.

"I think we might want to avoid that move if we can," Fíli had said. "It seems to be a bit much for one so..."

"Puny. Short. Round."

Fíli held up his hands. "Stout. I was going to say stout."

And in dwarven culture, being called stout _was_ a compliment. Bilbo had been quite insulted the first time Thorin had called him it, glaring up at the dwarf and then stomping away when he had made no effort to apologize at all. It had taken some explaining from Balin and Dís to sort out that cultural mishap. And being complimented on his large-ish nose was something that had taken a while for Bilbo to get used to as well.

"I hope they don't come back," said Frodo one evening when they were sitting out on the battlements. The early summer air was refreshing and the ivory spires of Dale were beautiful in the distance. "And I wish they'd never come here."

Bilbo cuddled his nephew close, eyes squinting against the sunset. "Who are you talking about, darling?"

"The dwarves from far away."

Frodo picked at his dirty fingers, which were a byproduct of his and Donel's adventures in the southern mine shafts. A sound scolding had ensued after the boys were caught by four of Bofur's miners. Both of them were confined to their bedchambers for the next week, and they were only allowed out if the adults agreed to it. Bilbo, Thorin, and Donel's parents had learned early that separating the boys—and occasionally Dwina, if she was involved—was the most effective punishment of all. And the older hobbit had only brought the faunt with him because of Frodo's pathetically sullen demeanor.

The lad had obviously been taking lessons from Thorin in recent months.

"If they don't come back, then you won't have to fight them and Uncle Thorin can kick them out of the mountain," reasoned Frodo. "They're stupid and dirty and the lasses keep trying to steal Fíli and Kíli. I hope they never come back."

Bilbo sighed. "Frodo, light of my life, most darling of my world: _why_ were you down in the mines today?"

No answer.

"Now, don't be like that, sweetheart." Bilbo kissed his nephew atop the head. "You and Donel know very well that you're not supposed to play in the mines. We've gone over that particular issue a few dozen times and it hasn't been a problem for over a year now. So, what happened?"

Still no answer.

Bilbo kissed his nephew on the cheek and said, "Are you going to make me beg?" He cuddled Frodo and purposely picked at the lad's fluffy foot fuzz. "You know how I abhor begging and groveling, my boy. Awful business, groveling is."

"They wouldn't leave Fíli alone, even after he started giving them the stink-face," pouted Frodo, his arms crossed with indignation. He was doing a wonderful rendition of his larger uncle right now. "And you know how annoyed Fíli has to be for his stink-face to appear, Uncle Bilbo. It looked like he'd smelled Currin's feet after a patrol and that's a _really_ nasty stink. Like, make your nose hairs fall out kinda stink."

"I don't doubt that, my dear."

"So, to help Fíli get away from them, I kinda..."

"You what?"

"I might have thrown some goat poo at them. And Donel did, too."

Bilbo groaned in response. "Oh, Frodo, you _know_ that you're not supposed to do things like that. I've shown you how to divert their attention away from a target. Just make yourself look cute and sweet and throw in some crocodile tears if push comes to shove. Throwing poo was never in those lessons, my boy."

"It worked. And Fíli escaped."

The hobbit shook his head in disbelief. "We're going to be assassinated if this keeps up. Poo throwing never helps anything. And I assume that this incident compelled the two of you to run into the mines?"

"Angry dwarf ladies are scary. Not as much as Aunt Dís, but it was close."

"What am I going to do with you?" asked Bilbo with a long-suffering groan. "You are a naughty, devious little boy."

"Blame Kíli."

"Oh, I blame your cousin for a great many things, but your behavior? Not so much." He poked his nephew in the side, thrilled at the giggle it earned him. "Frodo Baggins was a mischievous scamp when I received him. And no one but the Brandybucks are to blame for that."

"Uncle Rorimac's the worst."

They returned to the training hall a half-hour later. Bilbo had spent the morning and afternoon negotiating with two Lotani diplomats and several tribesmen from Forod, their lumber and cheese supplies the main focus of the trade agreements. The hobbit had sampled some of the latter fare and had been quite impressed with the quality. After his turn at taste-testing, Bombur had grabbed Bilbo's knee in excitement, dark eyes pleading with him to sign the supply contract. All in all, it had been a productive day and the dwarves of Erebor would be eating some delicious cheeses in the near future.

Of course, training was a whole different story.

"I'd suggest a long soak in the bath tonight," the Dwarf-King had said at the end of that evening's training session. "You won't be able to walk tomorrow if you keep holding your shoulders like that."

Bilbo had hobbled his way up to their bedchambers, Fíli serving as an excellent crutch before he'd kindly deposited Bilbo on the bed. With a great sigh, Bilbo just laid on the comfy quilt, ears twitching when Thorin entered a few minutes later and went straight into the bathroom. He eventually returned for Bilbo, staring down at the weary hobbit with that raised eyebrow look that all of the Durins seemed to favor.

"I've started to run the water," said Thorin. "How long are you planning to stay there?"

"Forever."

"Well, that certainly won't do."

Bilbo didn't even protest when Thorin started to take his clothes off, instead just laying there limp and a general bother to Erebor's King. All in all, Thorin took everything in stride and had his husband divested of all cloth within a few minutes. Everything was going just swimmingly, in Bilbo's opinion, until Thorin decided to poke at several of the bruises that lined the hobbit's ribs, biceps, and thighs. A smack was what Thorin got in return.

" _Why_ would you do that?!"

The King shrugged, hands resting under Bilbo's back and knees, easily lifting the much smaller hobbit in the bridal style that Thorin always favored during their more silly or frenzied bouts of lovemaking. He pulled at Thorin's braided beard in retaliation, sticking out his tongue when Thorin glared down at him. And then Bilbo was deposited into the large bathtub, sputtering and flailing and cursing at his cackling husband. Honestly, Bilbo was not surprised at all anymore when Fíli and Kíli acted like a pair of imbeciles or idiotic pranksters.

To be frank, they were _just_ like their thrice-darned uncle. And with some Víli and Dís thrown in, it wasn't surprising that they behaved like conniving hyenas whenever they were given half a chance. It ran in the bloody family like a waterfall!

Bilbo came spluttering to the surface. "Thorin Oakenshield! I will rip off your beard when I get a hold of you!"

"And that's why I'm staying over here, âzyungel."

The hobbit seethed. "And to think, I was _just_ scolding our nephews for their behavior at the planting celebration two weeks ago, and then you do _this_."

"At least they didn't take part in the farting contest like Gimli did."

"That's not the point."

"You look quite disheveled, umzam. Might I suggest a scrubbing? It does wonders for one's beard and armpits."

"I'll rip yours out once I'm done here," warned Bilbo with a glare. "Just you wait, Thorin Oakenshield. You're going to get yours and it won't be pleasant."

Bilbo was quite aware of just how bedraggled he'd become over the last few weeks. His tunics were perpetually rumpled, his hair askew, no brass buttons or handkerchief anywhere to be found. Even with the other Company members taking over much of Frodo's care, Bilbo hadn't had time for more than a quick wash most nights and some nights he had fallen asleep before even getting near the bathtub. He suspected that a few piles of dirt had made their home in his armpits, fingernails, and foot fuzz as well.

His father would've been mortified if he'd seen him now. Belladonna would've been damned proud. And she'd have stolen Frodo at the first chance, too.

With a sigh, Bilbo leaned back in the tub and closed his eyes. The wonderful warmth was seeping into his tired bones, down through bruised skin covered with welts and cuts, and he could not have asked for a better gift. Even the bubbles felt heavenly against his achy skin. The idea that Thorin had thought ahead to do this for him made his heart swell, and he said softly, "Thank you, darling."

Thorin just grunted and Bilbo's lips curled into a smile. He had expected nothing more.

The heat made Bilbo sleepy and he gave up any attempts at washing himself after the first few minutes, instead preferring to drift and doze in the warmth. Some time later, Thorin said quietly, "Wash, umzam. It's what baths are for."

"I'm not Frodo," protested the hobbit. "Or Kíli."

"That boy will never know how to bathe properly," said Thorin from where he was looking over trade reports at a nearby table. "He takes after his mother with that."

"Say that around Dís and she'll remove your jewels."

"Her hair was a literal rat's nest when we were children," said the King. "I think I found a dead bird in it once. And she was prone to fleas, too."

"That's encouraging."

"If Kíli ever contracts fleas again," rumbled Thorin, "I'll throw him from the battlements myself."

"Such violence."

"My nephew, my blood, my kin, my little bird," lamented Thorin like the drama queen he often was, "Has a strong attraction to _tall_ women. What are fleas and lice and filthy carrion compared to a travesty such as that?"

"You better hope he remains the _only_ nephew with that particular inclination."

"What was that?"

"Nothing! Just talking to myself, nothing to worry about."

Bilbo smiled innocently up at his husband, ignoring the stink-eye that Thorin was so skilled at. He obediently picked up the sharply scented soap that Thorin was so fond of, lathered it between his hands, and then proceeded to scrub himself all over, pointedly grinning at the Dwarf-King as he went about his bathing business. When his bath was done and the water cooling, Bilbo smelled of Thorin and his sore body was relaxed for the first time in nearly three months. Bilbo sat up in the tub and in response, Thorin turned to retrieve a towel.

"Come over here."

After Bilbo stood and stepped out of the tub, Thorin wrapped the towel around him and started to gently scrub his hair and body dry. Bilbo expected Thorin to retreat then, but he instead came closer and looked at Bilbo's exposed chest, concern written all across his features. That was an expression that almost no one outside their family and closest friends ever saw.

"Hold still," Thorin ordered. He began inspecting Bilbo after that, his fingers pressing against every bruise, every scrape, mapping out the damage done during training with a skilled touch. He looked up to meet Bilbo's eyes, and said, "You haven't used any of Óin's training balms, have you?"

"Kinda forgot," Bilbo admitted. "I was so tired. And Frodo needed tending..."

"Fortunately for you, ghivashel, I forget nothing." Thorin pointed toward the bed and cocked that no-nonsense eyebrow of his. "Climb up. I'll be back in a moment."

"Huh?"

"Bilbo, you are this close to dropping from exhaustion, and your body can't go on like this, I can assure you. Now get on the bed."

"This better not be—"

"I'm not going to do anything _evil_ or Kíli-like," assured Thorin. "On the bed. Now."

Bilbo bowed his head and went to the massive bed, crawling onto it with a mixture of dread and desire. He wouldn't be so nervous if his entire body didn't feel like a gigantic bruise. Once he was face down, the bed dipped and Bilbo knew it was Thorin climbing over him. It wasn't like this was the first time they'd given each other massages. Bilbo was quite partial to them, actually. He never passed up a chance to appreciate Thorin's muscles.

"Just hold still, umzam."

Sweet, cool drops of Óin's infamous balm spread across Bilbo's bath-warmed skin and he moaned at the feel of Thorin's strong hands and fingers digging into Bilbo's shoulders and lower back. It smelled different than the usual pine scented oil that Thorin favored so much, but Bilbo wasn't about to complain. The King's hands seemed able to find every sore and aching spot on Bilbo's abused back, which was pretty much the entirety of it.

"That feel's lovely," Bilbo purred. "The doors are locked?"

"Aye. No nephews will come tumbling in to interrupt us." Thorin worked on a painful knot just below Bilbo's right shoulder. "My sister does come in handy on occasion. She'll protect their innocent lil' eyes."

"I don't think that applies to the older ones."

The King's fingers massaged each muscle along Bilbo's vertebrae, slowly working the knots and kinks out of back without hitting any of the bruises. A few of Thorin's touches descended lower than was necessary, but the hobbit wasn't about to complain. And before too long, Bilbo was clutching at the blankets with a gasp, unwilling to twitch his hips like he so desperately wanted to. Bilbo always had this problem during massages, especially when he was sleepy. Thorin tended to bring out the wanton, horny side of Bilbo's Took nature.

After a few minutes, Thorin's fingers moved lower and he asked in a low and sultry tone, "Feel better?"

"Mmmmhmmm," groaned the hobbit, turning his face to hide the bright flush that had overtaken it. Fair skin always made such an endeavor difficult, especially since Thorin reveled in making his husband turn bright red during their lovemaking. And this time was even worse. Bilbo had not been touched so attentively in at least four months, with such intent and unbridled devotion, and it was impossible to control his sex-deprived body's response to it. The intense arousal and physical need born of love for Thorin would always bite at Bilbo's heels, even when he was physically exhausted or madder than hell at his thick-headed husband. So, Bilbo stilled his hips with a grunt and took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down and not have an accident on the sheets. "Why'd you stop?"

"Put your arms out to the sides," Thorin ordered. "C'mon, sanghivasha. Relax your whole body. Hands, too."

"I'm a puddle of goo. Can't move."

"Not quite yet," laughed the King. "But that's my ultimate goal."

"Ridiculous dwarf."

His calloused hands stroked firmly down Bilbo's sides and ribs—which were terribly ticklish and the one true weakness of every Took—before resting on ample hips as Bilbo spread his arms and legs out on the huge bed. Thorin shifted backwards and began kneading down his husband's bruised and overworked arms, pulling the strained knots out with his firm touches. A desperate noise escaped Bilbo's throat and the overheated hobbit shoved his face deeper into the sheets that smelled of stone, smoke, and Thorin. The King's hands were wrapped around Bilbo's now, gently stretching each finger and popping the month-old kinks out of them and it was so intoxicating that Bilbo fell asleep under the ministrations. If he was one of their nephews' beloved cats, he would've been purring at that moment.

"If you stop," gasped Bilbo, "I will not be held responsible for my actions."

Thorin leaned down and whispered into Bilbo's ear, "Is that a promise, my sweet hobbit?"

"It's certainly a threat."

Bilbo could feel his husband's smile against his neck, fingers twitching when Thorin's skilled hands massaged the knots out of his lower wrists and aching forearms. The sound and feel of a loud pop from Bilbo's left shoulder was much welcomed, especially since it had been bothering the hobbit for several days now. Despite being a strong and stout dwarf, Thorin could be infinitely gentle and attentive when he focused all of his attention on one thing. In this case, Bilbo was the very happy recipient.

"We should do this _every_ night. I'd feel so much better, my love."

"You're hopeless at arena fighting," Thorin said, his big fingertips curling against Bilbo's scalp and gently pushing into each of the pressure points hidden there. He sucked on the tips of Bilbo's ears while he went about his business. "Quite skillful at deceiving dragons and stabbing wargs in the skull, but arena fighting? It'd take years of work and practice, umzam."

Bilbo remembered whacking Dwalin in the head earlier that day. "Does that make Dwalin a warg?"

"Most definitely," laughed Thorin, his thick hands gentle on the tense muscles of Bilbo's shoulders and lower neck. "But the lessons seem to be working. Just not in the traditional dwarven way."

"I guess we can compare my combat skills to your prowess in the kitchen." Bilbo moaned when another crack came from his back. It felt so bloody amazing. "A lethal hazard to everyone in the vicinity."

Thorin hummed in return. "I thought you said you liked my meat pies?"

"Wait, those were supposed to be pies?" gasped Bilbo in fake awe. "I thought you'd made them for the boys to drop on Dwalin during his afternoon naps."

"...that's a good idea."

Bilbo was officially melting into a puddle of goo on the wonderful bed that was all his because he was Erebor's Consort and Thorin's husband and he deserved a giant, soft bed for all the shit he had to put with on a daily basis around here. In the meantime, Thorin demeaned the prowess of Bilbo's soon-to-be opponents, mouth much more foul when there were no subjects around to impress. Bilbo tuned them out after a while and quickly became a sleepy puddle of hobbit-y goop on their bed. If he felt the wet touch of lips to the nape of his neck and pointed ears, it was between him and his sleep-deprived brain, and Thorin could just figure out how to take care of himself for once. Honestly, the dwarf could be so demanding sometimes and...

Goodness, those hands were just astounding and wondrous and...

Waking two hours later was an unpleasant affair, but Bilbo decided that he would be able to endure it because he felt _so_ refreshed—every muscle, every knot, every bone, every unpleasant kink or ache had been chased away under the command of Thorin's hands. Bilbo definitely needed a massage more often, especially if this was the outcome. After a few more moments, the hobbit released an enormous yawn and turned his head, blurry eyes focusing on the tiny figure that was climbing right into the bed beside them. Bilbo gasped when ice cold feet were suddenly touching his back.

"I'm not quite sure how he managed to get in here."

The King was reclining against a large stack of pillows, completely naked except for the intricate inkings that covered a significant portion of his skin. Thankfully, two pillows and a blanket covered Thorin's lap. He'd obviously heard their youngest nephew sneaking in through one of the doorways. They really needed to speak with Nori about how inappropriate lock-picking lessons were for a young faunt.

"Hello there, darling."

Frodo stared at him. "Are you going to fall apart? Kíli said you would."

"What have I told you about listening to everything your cousin says," scolded Bilbo. "Although he might have been right a few hours ago. But your uncle fixed me."

"Donel's amad is gonna have a baby again."

Bilbo blinked. "Well, that's good news. I'll have to bake her a cake when this mad affair is over."

"I don't think Donel's too happy about it," said Frodo. He was now sitting on Bilbo's back and poking at Thorin's knee. "His twin sisters already take all of his amad's attention and another babe will just make him even more lonely."

"Well, you see, when you have as many children as—"

"Can you adopt him?"

Thorin choked on his pipe and Bilbo made a mental note to scold him for smoking in bed again. "Excuse me?"

"You've already adopted me," reasoned Frodo, "So why can't you adopt Donel? He's a dwarf like Uncle Thorin and everybody else, and he's my best friend, and he's always complaining about how his adad and amad don't pay attention to him. If he was here with us, he'd get lots of attention. And Fíli and Kíli wouldn't be able to pull their pranks on me all the time. Donel's _really_ good at catching them."

Bilbo looked helplessly at his husband. He didn't know how to answer in a way that wouldn't upset Frodo and his brain still felt like ground cheese from Thorin's wonderful hands. Wait, wait, not good thoughts! Or, at least, not good thoughts while a child was still in the room.

"I'm afraid it doesn't work that way, mizimith," said Thorin. "And it's entirely too late for you to be out of bed. Why are you still awake?"

Frodo pouted at not receiving the answer he had wanted, but then he turned to Bilbo and asked, "Are you gonna beat the shit out of the other grub-poopers, too? Because I don't like them. They're mean."

"Language, Frodo, language."

Thorin completely ignored that part. "What do you mean by _mean_?"

"All they do is glare at me," said Frodo with an annoyed sniff. "I told them that their eyes were gonna fall out if they kept staring like that, but then they said something not nice in Khuzdul and Uncle Dori chased them out of the shop with a hammer and butcher's knife. He's _scary_ when he's angry like that. Did you know that he can throw a dwarf through a door? Is that why he's your Champion, Uncle Bilbo? Because that door was solid _oak_."

They both just stared at him.

"Okay, it's time for bed," said Thorin. He snatched up the faunt and his underpants and disappeared through the adjoining door. "We'll talk about this in the morning."

"Good night, Uncle Bilbo!"

The older hobbit waved in response. "Good night, sweetheart!"

It took about five minutes for Thorin to return, his posture rigid as soon as he closed the door to Frodo's room behind him. Puzzled by this sudden change, Bilbo leaned up on his arms and tried to inquire about what had—

And, well, getting the daylights kissed out of him certainly wasn't what Bilbo had been expecting. Not that he was complaining, of course, but Thorin usually gave Bilbo some sign or warning before tackling him onto the bed like this. Goodness, now he was growling, too!

"Thorin..."

"I despise the way they stare at you," rumbled the King between kisses. He then buried his face in Bilbo's neck. "And at Frodo. Like you're something beneath their feet due to your hobbit ways and looks and heritage. I would cut out their eyes if it wouldn't cause a war, and I'd fight for you, protect you, shield you, if you'd just let me. _I_ should be your Champion."

"No eyes, Thorin. Fingers and tongues are enough. Not eyes now, too." Bilbo gasped when his husband attacked his ear, not at all surprised since the King had been paying an extra amount of attention to them since The Incident. "And you are my Champion, Thorin. You've been my Champion since the moment you woke up in that dreadful tent seven years ago. But you have to accept that you can't fight all of my battles for me."

Thorin looked downright livid at that statement.

"I know you want to, my love. I've seen it in your eyes these past few months," Bilbo whispered. He wrapped his arms around Thorin's broad shoulders and placed a soft kiss on his fuzzy mouth. "But this is something I must do alone. And with two trusted friends at my side. It's for the good of Erebor. You know this."

"That doesn't mean I have to like it," snarled Thorin. And there went that ear biting habit again. "And I'm the King..."

Bilbo snorted at that. "Don't we all know it."

And then Thorin bit him, hard, and Bilbo stuttered out a breath. "You are incredibly snarky. Now, get this _off_."

Oh, the poor, poor bedsheets.

The King moved them both, as careful of Bilbo's aching ribs as he could be before setting the small hobbit astride him. Bilbo just grinned down at him, fingers chasing over the dense hair on his husband's chest. And there was that familiar calculating gaze that always slid over Thorin's eyes and the King pressed his broad hands against Bilbo's ribs, feeling the rise and fall of his breath, catching the faint pulse of the hobbit's heart against his fingers. He matched his breath to Bilbo's and a familiar calm washed over him.

"I'm right here, Thorin." He gave the King a soft kiss. "Alive and whole, you silly dwarf."

Their next kiss was all soft around the edges, simple and slow, and Thorin lost himself in the slide of their lips, the blunt of Bilbo's teeth, and the easy glide of their tongues. He slid his hands over his husband's smooth hips, chasing the bruises along the dip of Bilbo's spine and finding comfort in the smooth, untouched skin. Thorin's fingers then brushed over his hobbit's behind, just tracing up and down, drawing a moan from Bilbo when he started rocking them together.

"We're all here, my love. Frodo and Dís and the boys. And _me_. You're not alone."

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve you."

Meanwhile, Bilbo peppered kisses down his neck and over his broad chest, arching his back into Thorin's sure hands. Thorin let him and just continued to explore, wiping the image of Bilbo's beaten body from his mind's eye and replacing it with this one—this vibrant, beautiful, and whole image that was Bilbo Baggins. His husband settled against his chest with a sigh, lips still restlessly moving over Thorin's skin, but the hobbit didn't move. He simply watched Thorin with those ever-understanding eyes, as bright and hazel as the peaceful land he'd left behind to live with a grumpy dwarf and his equally insane family.

Thorin finished his gentle exploration of Bilbo's back and then slid his hands up and into Bilbo's curly hair, tugging at him until they were lined up again, mouths just barely touching. Thorin's didn't move, just letting Bilbo's slight weight, Bilbo's warm breath, wash over him. And then they met in the middle, with that same leisure and warmth and security encompassing Thorin as they kissed. His fingers found Bilbo's gorgeous leaf-like ears again.

Oh, how he loved those ears.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't hurried. Thorin sighed against Bilbo's mouth, planting his feet on the bed and creating a cradle for Bilbo to sit in, his ass snug against Thorin's half-hard girth. Bilbo choked, a small and simple stutter of breath, and Thorin kept up the rocking motion of his hips, fingers ghosting over the pointed tips of his husband's pretty ears. He might have had a _slight_ obsession with them, but that was okay. That was healthy.

Thorin was allowed to be a little obsessed with his husband. It was healthy. He reminded himself of that every day.

He couldn't afford to forget it. Not again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've pretty concluded that this will be my last long-ish story for quite a while. After everything that's happened over the last two or so months and with my research trip coming up, I simply won't have time to write anything beyond short drabbles. And even those will be slow coming. Plus, I'm just kinda tired at this point. Dealing with all of the harassment and e-mail issues took more out of me than I thought—or was willing to admit—it did. However, I hope that you guys can continue to enjoy this story and that it will tide you over until I have time to write again.
> 
> And for those who are interested, I've already started posting my new drabble series: _The Misplaced Nephew of Thorin Oakenshield_.


	9. Chapter IX

The final weeks of training were a haze of new stances and defensive techniques, one after another without any respite. Dwalin was assigned the first week and he spent the afternoons trouncing Bilbo with the many weapons that were apparently necessary to his survival in the arena. It was absolutely grueling and Bilbo wondered several times if his arms were going to fall off from exertion. He had also accumulated a small audience over the past few weeks, ranging from his own nephews and some Company members to Erebor's guards and Currin's pack of skin-changers. None of the foreign delegates dared to come too close for fear of becoming a chew toy to one of the badgers that now occupied the stands every other morning.

"Bend your knees," growled Dwalin, "Or you'll get them blown out by a kick, laddie."

"Okay, I can just—"

"Move your feet or I'll run them over." Dwalin unleashed a barrage of strikes after that. In Bilbo's opinion, he moved far too fast for a dwarf of his size. "You need to outlast this fool with your endurance, so _keep_ moving!"

"Endurance isn't really my specialty."

"Neither is it for dwarves. We're natural sprinters." The large dwarf came at him again. "Now _move_!"

"Did you train the boys like this?" Bilbo gasped, hands shaking due to the massive strength behind Dwalin's blows. "Because I can now see why they run away every time you enter the training hall."

"Of course," Dwalin said with a snort. "And a little bit of terror is healthy for those devious lil' scoundrels."

"Point taken."

Fíli spent the second week correcting his uncle's stances and making sure that his offense and defense could compensate for his great lack of size. The young dwarf was even pickier than Thorin, his fingers constantly poking at Bilbo and moving Sting this way and that way until he was satisfied with the positioning. Bilbo didn't know whether to feel proud or annoyed at their nephew's impeccable fighting form. He eventually decided that he'd go with the former when this whole debacle was over.

"I think Balin's right. It is a letter-opener," Fíli said, his mustache drooping with a frown. "Unfortunately, your limbs just don't seem to want to stay in the right position. You need to keep your arms up here and not let them—"

"Like this?"

"Hey! Watch where you're pointing that lil' thing!"

"Ah, yes, it's a shame I didn't become a sheriff, which is the closest thing we have to a warrior in the Shire," said Bilbo. He purposely jabbed at his unsuspecting nephew's open side. "Being a grocer and strange little fellow is much easier, I've heard."

"Don't look at me! That was _all_ Uncle Thorin, I swear."

"A likely story."

"Do hobbits even have warriors? Or do you just whack interlopers with a rake and hope for the best?"

"We usually just feed them to death." Bilbo struck out and actually hit his nephew's shoulder this time. "The comatose are easy to defeat. Never see it coming."

"Practical. Underhanded. Effective. I like it."

Nori worked with him on evasive movements throughout the third week, pushing Bilbo to use his smaller size and dexterity to his advantage. To say that Nori was ridiculously fast would be an understatement since the dwarf moved like a blur when he really put his mind to it. Bilbo's trousers nearly fell down when Nori decided to be particularly evil and snap off the buttons on his suspenders. How he managed to get underneath Bilbo's mithril shirt and other armor was beyond him, but a person really could never be sure with Nori.

"You need to relax your muscles," said Nori after about an hour of non-stop training. "Being tense will slow you down and make it difficult to land an effective strike."

"I doubt even my strongest strikes will do much damage," admitted Bilbo. "Surprise has always been my best friend."

"And you should plan to use that to your advantage, too." Nori circled around the hobbit, fingers twirling one of Bilbo's beads through them. "Most dwarves are arrogant when it comes to other races. He won't expect you to fight dirty."

"Killing isn't allowed, Nori."

"Some swift maiming is always a welcome prospect in the arena," said the thief. He completely ignored Dwalin's disgusted snort. "We just need to make sure you're quick and know which _soft_ areas to strike on a dwarf."

"The throat and ears?"

"Ah, now there's the burglar that we all know and fear," said Nori as he flipped his short sword from hand to hand. "Your neighbors would be horrified."

"Can I at least have my suspender buttons back?"

"Hit me and we'll see."

Glóin spent the fourth week with Bilbo working on his brute strength, which shouldn't have been surprising since the dwarf often acted like a mad bull in combat. His sister stepped in from time to time, making sure that Bilbo was aware of how to use his opponent's excessive strength against him. When it came to sheer power and force, Bilbo would never measure up to a dwarf, but he could figure out ways to work around it. So, to help him better understand such methods, Glóril happily used her middle brother as a practice dummy before bringing Bilbo into the training ring.

"You'll need to strike fast and hard," said Glóin as he showed Bilbo how to land a combo-blow to the solar plexus and throat. "Send him toppling right over and into a knock out position. A knee to the face always works, laddie."

"If I had another foot and a couple more years of training on me, yeah, maybe," said Bilbo with a sigh. "But right now? Uh uh. Not possible."

"For the fifteenth time, nadadugmil, he's not a dwarf."

"And I'm well aware of that," snapped Glóin. He had been bickering with his sister most of the morning. "But he also needs to press an advantage if he's presented with one."

"Can we please just get back to—"

"That would be fine if he was the same size as Fifnir," said Glóril, "But he's not. Your methods will get him snapped in half like a butterbean."

"Umm, excuse—"

"My methods are far better than yours! Dancing around the ring without a blunt strike won't..."

"Why do I even bother?"

Bilbo took the fifth week off because if he didn't get away from all dwarves for at least a few days, something very drastic and unpleasant and un-Consort-like was going to happen. On early Trewsday morning, Bilbo accompanied the skin-changers to Dale, his oldest and youngest nephews, Bofur, Bombur, Hania, and Frodo's little friends going with them to peruse the lower markets. A small elven delegation was also scheduled to meet with Bard and the city council, so Erebor's Consort had deemed it wise to meet with them on neutral ground and far away from his elf-hating husband. Even with improved relations in recent years, it was always best to keep some distance between the King Under the Mountain and anything that was tall, willowy, and several hundred or thousand years old.

"Will you be attending Bard's council later this afternoon?" asked Currin when they arrived in the northmen city. "My grandmother will be spending the next few days here, but you're not obligated to represent Erebor unless you desire it."

"It's always wise to sit in on your neighbors' negotiations," said Bilbo with a shrug. "And I may be able to contribute some information about Erebor's present conditions. We need as many trade agreements as we can get right now. I'm not comfortable with how low Erebor's granaries and cold storage chambers are at the moment, either. Did Kíli inform you about the opening of the southern mithril mines?"

Currin nodded. "He said that it might entice the southern cities to open larger trade routes with Erebor and Dale."

"We're certainly hoping for that outcome. Even the smallest amount of mithril should send the southern traders racing up the Anduin, especially those from the lands around Gondor and Dorwinion." Bilbo winked at her. "With such an enticing bunch of luxury goods, even the Elvenking might be persuaded to provide additional food supplies in the future."

"Tauriel!"

A pint-sized blur attempted to run past Bilbo's legs, but the older hobbit promptly grabbed Frodo by the collar of his shirt and flung him into Currin's waiting arms. The little boy pouted at them, arms crossed in indignation as everyone laughed at the child's melodramatic behavior. Bilbo wouldn't have found it so endearing if the pouts and huffy sighs didn't sound so much like the Dwarf-King himself.

"I see that someone's been taking lessons in stage play," said Tauriel with a smile. "And what a grand glare you have there!"

Fíli snickered. "He's learned from the best."

"I don't doubt that at all, Master Dwarf. Such a fierce glare can only be learned from the greatest of warriors." The red-haired elf happily accepted Currin's burden and tossed him into the air with ease. "And by the Valar, look at how you've grown into your ears, thalion nîn!"

"Quite the Champion you have there," snorted Currin. "Will he be defending you from Prince Leggy?"

"He _will_ try to shoot you again, I swear it."

The skin-changer shrugged. "The princeling can try, but I can't guarantee the continued existence of his boots."

"You were responsible for his...soiled boots last summer, weren't you?" Tauriel smiled at the dwarflings as they cautiously approached her. "I don't think I've heard the prince shriek so loudly in _quite_ a long time."

"Oh, you know how goats are," said Currin with a wave of her hand, "Always attracted to shiny, leathery things."

Bilbo felt a chill dash down his spine when the elf-captain and skin-changer smiled all feral-like at each other, their eyes darting towards the Manse of Dale for a few seconds. It was more than enough to reinforce the hobbit's assumptions that Tauriel and Currin were the type of friends who engaged in terrible mischief whenever they were in one another's company.

"We'll gladly take the little ones off your hands for the afternoon," said the skin-changer. She scooped Donel and Dwina up into her arms, Glyn and her cousins only a few feet behind her. "It won't do for the Consort to be distracted during important meetings and such. Enjoy yourself and being child-free for the day, Bilbo."

"And shopping," added Frodo. "Food shopping is _very_ serious."

"You are quite right. Nothing should be taken more seriously than grocery shopping," said Tauriel with a serious face. "Selecting the best tomatoes or flowering fruits can be an arduous affair, indeed."

"I know!"

"No wonder the prince gave up," whispered Bofur when they were a safe distance away. "Our Frodo's stolen the elf-maid for himself."

The hobbit just shook his head in amusement. It wasn't unusual for the skin-changers and elves to hunt together, and Bilbo knew that Currin and Tauriel had been friends for several decades now. Both of them were great warriors and trackers, professions that were typically dominated by the males of their species, even if the skin-changers were significantly more egalitarian than other races. Their world catered to the combat prowess and accomplishments of men far more than women, but this hadn't stopped either Tauriel or Currin from matching their male counterparts on the battlefield.

"I think it'd be wise to visit the markets before meeting with Bard," said the hobbit. "Bombur and I are quite eager to peruse the Dorwinion merchant's wares. He always has the best fruits and vegetables this time of the summer."

"Maybe he'll have bananas and kaffa beans, too?" Hania looked particularly excited as well. "Your banana bread was _divine_ last year."

"Well, we'll just have to...wait, where's Fíli?"

Bilbo looked all around them and frowned, thoroughly baffled by the reasons behind his oldest nephew's sudden disappearance. The lad was supposed to accompany him to speak with Bard, which Bilbo and Thorin agreed would be good diplomatic practice for him. Thorin wasn't getting any younger and it was vital that Fíli could act in his uncle's stead during times of injury or illness.

"Ugh, where on Arda did that lad disappear to now?"

"I wouldn't worry too much about it," assured Bofur with a knowing smile. "He'll pop up before negotiations begin, so don't fret. Unlike Kíli, our crown prince actually has a few responsible bones in his body."

"He'll certainly be in trouble if he doesn't," said Bilbo. "Cupcake rights are a precarious thing in our household right now."

"The lads took your cushion again, didn't they?"

Bilbo's face flushed bright red and he hissed, "Not in public, Bofur! By the Valar, why must you dwarves be so crude."

"It's in our nature."

After purchasing several bushels of bananas, kaffa beans, sweetgrass, and Dorwinion peppers, the Consort of Erebor and his small company of dwarves arrived at Bard's little meeting with Mother Nymeria and their elven neighbors. The negotiations went well and Bilbo was able to secure another shipment of forest nuts from the Mirkwood elves, an achievement that he had been working towards for the past few weeks. Slowly and steadily, Erebor's granaries were filling up to their former capacities under Bilbo's careful, meticulous eyes. He was determined to provide Erebor with a long-lasting safety net of food supplies in case of future sieges and wars, which would also inevitably drive the men of Dale and Esgaroth into the dwarven stronghold as well.

"You've set aside a separate granary for us?" Bard had asked in disbelief.

"Of course, and why wouldn't I? The men of Dale are our closest allies and guaranteeing the safety of your people would work to Erebor's advantage," explained Bilbo as he showed the grim man Erebor's granary quotas. "We'll be laying aside a half-dozen halls of the mountain specifically in case of sieges on the Dale Lands. With a large enough granary and cold storage chambers, we'd be able to withstand several months of assaults behind the mountain walls."

"Your archers would also be an excellent addition to Kíli's corps during an attack on the keep itself," said Fíli. He was going over several pages of subsistence and yield reports with Sigrid and two council members. "Uncle's also commissioned the building of four windlances on the battlements. Just in case..."

"We wouldn't leave your people to fend for themselves," assured Bilbo. "Erebor and Dale must work together to survive in the coming years."

Sigrid's answering smile was a little watery, but neither Bilbo nor Fíli drew attention to it. "I think the farmers would be willing to work a few extra hours and hire a few more hands if such a plan were brought before them."

"I can have them gathered by late tomorrow evening," said Bard. "Will you be able to stay until then?"

Bilbo smiled. "Aye. Just let me fetch a raven."

The following days resulted in many new trade agreements, farming quotas, and planning out the granary submission for the next five years. All of Dale's farmers were more than happy to increase the acreage of their plots to contribute to Erebor's emergency food storage, which Bilbo assured them would be ready within a few months time. He agreed to personally show them the chambers himself during the autumn harvest. So, with that matter settled, Bilbo returned to the Lonely Mountain with a positive outlook on the coming weeks.

He really should've known not to be so optimistic...

Dís worked with him on grappling and unarmed combat during the sixth week, and it didn't take long for Bilbo to realize why everyone feared the Lady Under the Mountain so much. Ruthless and dirty was the best way to describe Dís' fighting and training style. She went straight for the most vulnerable areas of an opponent's body, specifically the neck, knees, and groin. And she was completely unapologetic about it, too.

"Self-defense may be the most brutal of all fighting styles," said Dís, "But some of the less lethal moves can also be applied in the arena."

"No groin?"

"Well, it's not _technically_ allowed, but I've always lived by the philosophy that there's no harm in it when the judges can't see," said the princess with a sneaky grin. "Your small size is going to require some...resourceful maneuvers if you wish to win the match."

"I wouldn't want to remove someone's jewels if I didn't have to," said Bilbo. "That's a little too cruel for my tastes."

"Not for mine." A knife buried itself in the groin of a straw-filled dummy. "We've plenty of males amongst our race. A few of them losing their dwarfhood won't harm us in the long run. And it's the womenfolk of Durin who matter most, anyways."

"Ah, yes, the skewed gender population."

"Do you remember what I showed you earlier?" Dís circled around him, adjusting Bilbo's arms here or there. "With the hilt strike to the throat?"

"Are you sure that won't kill him?"

"Quite frankly, I don't care. Deaths are not unheard of in the arena. And I'd rather have a dead dwarf on my hands than a dead hobbit. Erebor wouldn't survive my brother's depression and hysteria." His sister-in-law was repositioning Sting again. "You're not allowed to lose or die, Bilbo Baggins. Dear, sweet Thorin is absolutely insufferable whenever you aren't in his sight or immediate vicinity."

"Then he must be insufferable all the time," Bilbo quipped, "Because my daytime schedule doesn't revolve around his arrogant, clingy backside."

"And this is why I like you, nadad melekûn."

Bilbo laughed. "Ah, I see how it is. Because I keep your brother in line, I'm now worthy of grand Khuzdul titles."

"Exactly."

The seventh week was a little strange since Bilbo was supposed to train with his middle nephew, but Kíli wasn't in the training hall when he arrived. Puzzled by his nephew's lateness, the hobbit sat on a bench and decided to wait for Kíli's inevitable appearance. The lad tended to have a short attention span at the best of times, so it's wasn't too odd for him to get distracted and end up in an entirely different location. It happened often enough that Thorin didn't even bother sending a search team—which usually consisted of Dwalin and no one else—out to look for him anymore.

He always wandered back eventually, if you gave him some time and didn't get your hopes up. Of course, Thorin was never a patient individual, so...yeah, Kíli tended to get bumps on the head for that particular bad habit. Not that it did much damage to the lad's thick skull, anyways.

"Good afternoon, Bilbo."

Squeaking in surprise, the hobbit turned around and said, "Oh, hello, Currin. Did your patrol go well?"

"The dwarves have returned."

Bilbo felt all breath rush out his lungs and if it wasn't for Currin's speedy hands, he probably would've toppled off the bench. He gripped the skin-changer's arm tightly, eyes blinking and scanning the hall for any signs of non-Ereborian dwarves. The presence of a tall, snarly, and very protective tundra wolf was reassuring, but Bilbo also knew that he wouldn't have such luxuries in the arena.

"Thank you, Currin."

"Kíli's right. You are pleasantly plump. No wonder the King hoards you like a treasure trove."

"I'm going to take that as a compliment."

The skin-changer straightened him out on the bench and said, "If my nose is to be trusted, then all three of the worms appear to have returned. However, they also have a strong smell of blood and exhaustion about them. And at least three seem to be missing from their numbered return."

"And that means..."

"I smell nine scents instead the twelve that left nearly four months ago." Currin scrunched up her nose and focused on the retained smells. "And none of the scents of their unaccounted for companions linger upon their clothes. They must have perished before the return journey."

"You make death sound so casual."

Currin shrugged. "The Northern Waste and the lands surrounding it in all directions are a difficult and dangerous place to live, even for us. And due to my race's longevity, I have seen many of my kinsmen and women pass into Yavanna's forests. These dwarves committed a violent act against two young pups, something that is unforgiveable in my culture. A quest of redemption was a kindness that I wasn't obligated to grant them."

"It certainly scared the other dwarves into submission."

"The loss of their kin is their fault and their fault alone," said Currin, her clawed hand wrapped around Bilbo's much smaller one. "Actions have consequences and they took a route that led to some very unpleasant results. And if their fate is sealed in the arena, then Mahal shall be their final judge in the afterlife."

"I'm not a warrior like you or my husband or my nephews. Taking a life just..."

"None of us enjoy taking a life, my friend. But sometimes, it is a necessary evil that we must live with." She squeezed his hand and gave him a small smile. "I know that you do not believe in yourself at the moment, but I can smell that courage and strength on you, little hobbit. Your heartbeat is strong and steady, something that not all beings are blessed with. I have great confidence in you."

"And Dori?"

Currin laughed. "Oh, yes, indeed! For being such a fusspot, that dwarf is _fierce_. The brute strength doesn't harm his chances, either."

"And Bifur?"

"He'd make a fine berserker on the battlefield. And his mind isn't nearly as broken or lost as people assume. Foolish, the whole lot of them."

"They don't give him enough credit."

Both of them sat there for a few minutes, Bilbo contemplating the return of all three dwarves while Currin observed the guards training in the rings. Her presence was quite calming, which genuinely surprised the hobbit. He'd been cautious around Currin for years, mostly due to her intimidating stature and blunt demeanor. The skin-changers weren't exactly the gentlest bunch.

"I'll be helping you train this week," said Currin. "The dwarves will probably need at least a few days to recover, so we'll have to maximize what time's left and make sure you and your Champions are ready to face them."

"That makes me feel so much better."

And train they did, especially in the first days since the dwarves' arrival. Currin worked largely on endurance and body language with him, saying that the ability to read and interpret an opponent's intent was half the battle in an arena fight. Her grandmother and Thorin popped in often, both offering their own morsels of advice whenever the wolf allowed him a break or step-by-step instruction. Most of the Company filtered in and out, some of them giving their own input or personally sparring with Bilbo as well. Currin could smell and hear Bilbo's every reaction, so it was impossible to hide his fears and discomforts from her.

"You must take advantage of the subtlest weakness," said the wolf. "He will try to hide his exhaustion and panic, as is natural for anyone with combat training. However, he also won't expect _you_ to know what to look for. Arrogance and pride are often the greatest weaknesses of dwarves."

"I feel insulted."

"Your feelings will survive." Kíli just pouted at her. "Now, what do you see when you look at me?"

Bilbo circled around her with Sting and said, "Your left shoulder is slightly drooped, which means that you've probably injured your shoulder and your range of reach should be about half of its normal length. Your right leg keeps straightening, an obvious sign of exhaustion and injured toes. And you are shuffling more than maneuvering now, an also obvious sign of exhaustion and waning concentration."

"Very good. And?"

"Ummm, your knuckles are really white, which means that you're trying really hard not to drop your weapon." Bilbo paused, eyes roving over her form. "And you're squinting like there's sweat in your eyes and I should take advantage of that problem to attack anything below your immediate field of vision. Right?"

Currin just stared at him for a moment, eyes hard and then softening as a pleased smile stretched across her face. "Very good. You're more observant than I've given you credit for, my little friend. Few trainees notice so many false tells in a single demonstration."

"Of course, he is," said Kíli from his favorite bench. "Uncle Bilbo's a genius."

"Kíli..."

"Well, let's hope his academic genius applies to basic combat as well," said Currin. "And I think that's enough for today. It'd be best that you spend the next four days resting and scheming with your Champions. Masters Dori and Bifur smell quite anxious and worried for your safety right now."

Both dwarves were hovering nearby, their faux-relaxed posture doing a poor job at hiding their inner turmoil. To anyone outside the Company, they would've appeared to be as cool as cucumbers, but Bilbo knew them far better than that. Especially Dori. He was _always_ a worrywart.

Currin smiled down at him. "I'll leave you to your dwarves now. Goodnight."

The hobbit watched her leave with wide eyes, his stomach churning around the giant knot at the bottom of it. He wanted to call Currin back and ask for more training sessions. Bilbo felt so woefully unprepared; hobbits weren't meant to fight in arenas or upon battlefields. True, they were hardy folk, but combat was not something they were designed for, be it of the mind or of the brawn. Everything ached, from his toes to the very top of his head, and Bilbo knew that it would only be worse after the duel of honor. Well, if he actually survived the whole ridiculous event.

By the Valar, he felt like he was going to be—

"Whoa, whoa, breathe easy, laddie." A warm, familiar hand rubbed up and down Bilbo's shoulders and arms. "We're here for you. Every step of the way. You won't be doing this alone. Ah, there's our burglar. Deep breaths."

A pair of hands appeared in front of Bilbo's face. _We will win. Do not fear. Our burglar will win._

"I'm terribly sorry," said Bilbo after a few more moments. A cup of water was placed in his hand. "This whole debacle seems to be fraying my nerves worse than I'd thought. Ah, thank you, Kíli. I swear, you dwarves must have a sixth sense or something. Always knowing when I'm upset or about to deprive you of desserts."

_That last one is most essential._

Bilbo laughed. "Aye, that it is. My cruelty knows no bounds, doesn't it?"

"Cruelest uncle I've ever had."

He basked in the dwarves' presence for a long while before finally asking, "So, I've been told that we'll be fighting our opponents together? Would anyone care to explain to a poor, confused hobbit how this newest development will work?"

And so their scheming had begun...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally back in my element! Writing action scenes is so much fun, especially since I'm used to getting pulverized in the boxing ring myself. Things are so much easier to describe or illustrate when you've done them yourself. And yes, this is the second to last chapter. Thank you to everyone who's stuck with me through the past couple weeks and months. It _really_ means a lot to me. Your support helped me push through the harassment and still want to write these stories, even if drabbles are all I'll have to offer in the immediate future. So, now for the big fight! 
> 
> Nadad melekûn = brother hobbit. Thalion nîn = my champion.


	10. Chapter X

The dwarven honor duel took place on a Mersday morning, autumn's first chill descending from the Northern Waste and heralding the end of the delegation's presence in the mountain. All of them—Stonefoots, Blacklocks, Firebeards, and Broadbeams—were scheduled to depart at the end of the week, their leaders confident that they'd be able to pass through Rhûn or the Gap of Rohan before the first snowstorm came out of Forod. Meanwhile, the dwarves of Erebor breathed a great sigh of relief and went back to the usual business of their keep. Few of them would be sad to see the outside dwarves leave, mostly because life was much easier without foreigners invading their guild halls or sticking their two coins into domestic affairs.

"If I wish to do business with the ladies of Dale, then I _will_ do business with the ladies of Dale," an Ereborian weaver had said. "And no clay-digging muttonhead can tell me otherwise. Honestly, the nerve..."

"Cluttering up my forges is what they're doing," a silversmith had complained. "A few great smiths among them, but I could do without the overcrowding."

"The fools bought up two-thirds of Dale's shipment of Dorwinion wine!"

"My daughter's not courting no axe-biting, mud-pissing Stonefoot!" one of Thorin's council members had snarled. "A desert's no home for a daughter of Durin's Folk. I simply won't have it."

"They found Master Bofur's still! Terrible business. Just terrible."

"I saw nearly a half-dozen of them outside the Bag O' Tea last night," a blacksmith had harrumphed. "The sand-loving cretins are still trying to serenade Master Dori despite all of the suitors that he's thrown out the door. Or _through_ it."

"Utterly ridiculous. If a Longbeard can't woo the oldest Ri brothers, what makes those fools think they can accomplish such an impossible feat?"

"Well, there _has_ been some talk about the middle one as of late..."

Of course, Bilbo knew that many of the complaints were exaggerated, but he also knew that Erebor's citizens were sick and tired of having two hundred-plus foreign dwarves residing within their battered halls. The vast majority of delegation members hadn't been a problem, preferring to keep to themselves and simply go about their daily routines in a professional and undisruptive manner. Few Ereborians had grievance against them. However, there was a vocal minority who was far more xenophobic and close-minded than the rest, and it was this particular group that the Longbeards wouldn't miss after their departure.

"How are you doing, laddie?"

The hobbit gave Balin a wan smile. "About as well as can be expected for someone who's about to get the stuffing beat out of them."

"You don't give yourself enough credit." The elderly dwarf stepped closer and helped Bilbo adjust the light chainmail that Thorin himself had made for him. "Size and strength often isn't what determines the outcome of a fight, laddie."

"That's easy to say when you're not half the size of your opponent." Bilbo grimaced. "Or stuck in an arena with no means of escape."

"I remember our burglar outsmarting Smaug quite vividly."

"For some reason, I don't think riddles or hobbit-y scents or ridiculous displays of flattery will work in this particular situation."

Balin chuckled. "Well, the flattery might."

"Oh, yes, I'll make sure to compliment his voluminous beard and intricate golden beads while he's beating the hobbit-y snot out of me."

"That's the spirit, laddie."

After taking a deep breath, Bilbo turned towards the double doors that led from his bedchambers to the King's receiving room. He could hear his nephews and several other members of the Company talking, their voices loud and boisterous and quite irritated as they prepared mentally and physically for today's main event: a triple duel of honor between Fifnir, Gronin, and Rukuhl, and Bilbo, Dori, and Bifur. Apparently, it had been Dori who had requested a combined duel, something that had not been practiced in a half-dozen centuries. Ori had been the one to find its description in an ancient text on dwarven law, which he immediately presented to his older brothers and then the King himself.

"I've the right to demand a combined duel," had been Dori's words. "If more than two pairs of participants are involved, then such an event may be facilitated at the request of half the duelists if they so choose to implement it. Both Bifur and myself have agreed that this course of action would be best for Bilbo and ourselves."

Balin had carefully read through the codes before saying, "Aye, the lad's right. So long as Bilbo signs as the third participant, then it's perfectly legal."

"I can smell the need for vengeance wafting through the air," Bofur had joked. "And it would seem that our dear teamaker's and spymaster's suitors will be receiving quite the response in a few weeks time. I'm a little saddened that only the three of you are allowed to have all the fun."

"A couple of them tried to serenade Nori last night," Ori had added. "For the twelfth time. I think Dori just wants to pummel them into ground beef now."

Bofur had snorted. "Fine by me. It's ridiculous at this point."

And that was how Bilbo had ended up here, in a room full of wonderful dwarves who couldn't seem to decide if they wanted to bite their nails with anxiety or charge off to the arena and taunt any dwarf that dared to side with Bilbo's assailants. The hobbit could hear a familiar scratching off in the far corner, which meant that Dwalin was obsessively sharpening his axes for the umpteenth time that morning. Just like Erebor's King and Princes, Dwalin was very unhappy that he'd not be taking part in the Consort's duel and it was obvious to anyone with eyes that the grizzled warrior was spoiling for a fight. If any dwarf so much as dared to disparage or interfere with the match, they could expect a fist to their face and an axe to their rear.

"I believe it's about time, isn't it?"

"Aye, that it is," said Dori as he and Bifur came to stand beside their Consort. "And we'll be with you every step, punch, and stab along the way. Honestly, I'm feeling quite invigorated at the moment."

"You just want to smash Gronin's face in because he's been pursuing Nori for months now."

"Unfortunately for him, I'm not much of a fan of redheads or over-beaded beards," said Nori from where he was perched atop an oaken bureau. He gave Glóin, Bombur, and their families an apologetic smile. "It just doesn't keep my knives sharpened. No offense to our lovely fire-crackers, of course."

"Not in front of the faunt, Nori. We've talked about this."

Bilbo felt a warm arm encircle his waist a few moments later, the tell-tale brush of stubble against his forehead alerting the hobbit to his husband's presence. The Dwarf-King had been tense and irritable the past couple days, temper flaring at anyone foolish enough to speak with him—which consisted of nearly every member of the Royal Council— or even remotely mention the upcoming duel of honor. Thorin's short fuse and grumpiness was infamous among the Longbeards, but even Dís and their three boys had taken to avoiding Erebor's King as much as possible.

"I could still replace you," the King whispered into Bilbo's ear. He was practically clinging to his husband's smaller form now. "You're a hobbit. By dwarven law, you don't have to do this. I'll gladly fight in your stead as a Champion."

"You know that's not an option, Thorin. Everything's already politically charged enough with me being Erebor's Consort."

"I will never like the idea of you having to fight a narrow-minded dwarf for something as ridiculous as cultural honor," said Thorin. He looked downright livid. "I should have taken their heads when I had the chance."

"Well, at least Erebor and Dale received a gigantic bagful of life-saving medicine out of this whole debacle." Bilbo tried to give his husband a reassuring smile. "And how dare you question my abilities, Thorin Oakenshield. Was it not I who saved you from becoming troll paste? Or I who faced down Azog and his awful warg to protect your grumpy, impulsive backside? And have you forgotten about the elven dungeons that you managed to—"

"Enough! You've made your point."

"I'll be alright, Thorin. You've trained me well, whether you're willing to admit it or not. I can at least defend myself now."

The hobbit leaned over and wrapped his arms around the King, kissing him gently on the cheek while their oldest nephews bickered over who should be chosen as judges for the match. For a few seconds, Bilbo closed his eyes and just absorbed the sounds around him: his nephews' laughter, Balin's steadfast presence, Dwalin's obsessive need to sharpen his weapons and glare at Nori, young Gimli's snarky grumbling, Bofur's ridiculous gallows humor, Dís snorting at everyone's stupidity, and the familiar warmth of his husband, Dori, and Bifur on all sides. These crazy, maniacal dwarves—and fauntling, of course—were his entire life.

"We'd best be going, laddie," said Balin. "An early arrival would be prudent, I believe."

"Of course, that would be most wise." Bilbo smiled at his friends and family and loyal Champions and the pile of deerhounds laying in the far corner. "Well, looks like it's time to see if dwarves are as challenging as dragons and trolls in combat. I already know they don't stack up as well in the wits department."

The boys grimaced and Kíli said, "We're never going to hear the end of the troll fiasco, are we?"

"Absolutely not."

It took a bit of finagling and bickering, but they eventually made their way down to the official arenas that were located two corridors across from the training hall. Bilbo and his Champions parted company with everybody else once they arrived, only the King and Balin accompanying them into the ready rooms that were reserved solely for those participating in the honor duels. It had been torturous to leave an anxious and jumpy Frodo with Dís and Dala, but Bilbo would have to make a lot of difficult decisions today. However, that didn't mean he had to like them.

"Despite the crudeness of this whole situation," said Dori as he readied his beloved bolas and sword, "I'm genuinely looking forward to smashing some teeth into the backs of their throats."

"For some reason, I fear that that would only make them more persistent," Bilbo lamented. He allowed Thorin to check his mail, vambraces, mithril shirt, and other protective gear for the fourth time. "You dwarves are a strange lot when it comes to appropriate courting behaviors."

"They don't like hobbits," said Dori. "That fact alone makes them unmarriageable material."

Bifur nodded and signed, _They are fools. Arrogant, stupid, unworthy fools. They are fortunate to not be thrown into a shaft for their crimes._

"I didn't know that was a potential punishment."

 _Many dwarves have disappeared that way in the past._ Bifur's smirk was vicious and feral. _My cousin and I were thinking of reviving the practice._

"Thorin?!"

"I didn't see or hear a single word," drawled the King. "Masters Bifur and Bofur are trusted members of my Company and Council and I have complete trust in their abilities to administer adequate punishments for reprehensible crimes."

"Vindictive lunatics, the whole lot of you."

"And we will bask in the vengeful bloodshed and merciless retribution that you shall unleash in the arena," said Balin with an entirely too excited smile. "Now come along, lad. Our burglar's quite capable of fighting for his own honor and even then, he has two loyal and very experienced Champions at his side to assist him. Or have you forgotten all about their many credentials?"

"The Stinging Fly certainly counts as the best of them," said Dori, swinging his bolas to gauge their weight. "Or He Who Walks Unseen. That one is Ori's favorite."

_I prefer the Barrel-Rider. Very intimidating._

Balin chuckled and said, "I always thought Luck-wearer was quite catchy. And Mr. _Boggins_ , of course. The poor lad still mispronounces your name to this day. You'd think that he was an uneducated fool with the way he speaks, wouldn't you?"

"It wasn't me who allowed him to skip lessons," grumbled Thorin. "Blame your brother and the lad's friends. Menaces, all three of them."

"You dwarves are ridiculous," said Bilbo, fingers picking nervously at Sting while Thorin continued to tightly hold him from behind. "Completely and utterly ridiculous. I honestly don't know why I continue to put up with your silly malarkey."

A bell rung in the distance, signaling the seventeenth hour and the scheduled time of the honor duel. Thorin's arms tightened around the hobbit's waist, his nose burrowing deep into the curls and leaf-like ears that he adored more than anything else in life. Knowing that he had to be the mature and collected spouse today, Bilbo reached up and gave his husband a kiss on the nose before slowly extricating himself from those stubborn, steel-corded arms. He had made Thorin promise to stay with the boys and Dís through the whole fight; Bilbo didn't want their nephews to be left alone during what could be a traumatizing moment in their lives. Even when about to be pulverized into the ground, he needed to think first and foremost about the three boys and their continued well-being.

"I'll be seated in front with the Company and Mother Nymeria," said Thorin as he kissed Bilbo's forehead for the sixth time. "And remember, an honor duel isn't a fight to the death. Dwalin will be along the arena's edge the entire time with his guards and the skin-changers."

Bilbo leaned up for another kiss and said, "I can do this, Thorin. I can."

"I know," sighed the King. He looked at the two dwarves flanking Bilbo on either side, weapons at the ready and faces grim with determination. "All three of you have proven yourselves many times over. I just didn't...I never wanted this for you, sanmizim."

"Life doesn't always work out the way you want or plan, my dear."

With that said and one last kiss, Thorin exited the ready room with Balin at his side, the older dwarf giving Bilbo an affectionate head-bump before following his King into the Chamber of Honor. Meanwhile, Bifur and Dori laid strong hands on his shoulders, their presences slightly soothing the tight, nauseous knot that was consuming much of the hobbit's stomach. He could hear the announcement of their opponents in the distance, the crowd remaining respectfully subdued compared to most other exhibitions, arena matches, and honor trials. This particular duel involved a crime against their Consort and two young children; in dwarven society, that was no laughing matter and definitely not something to cheer or start betting pools about.

"Do you remember what we worked on, Bilbo?"

The hobbit nodded, his palms sweaty from nerves and gripping Sting so tightly. Bifur's hand closed over his for a few seconds, giving the hobbit two reassuring squeezes with a couple Iglishmêk signs drawn into his open palm for good measure. The dwarf was far more perceptive than anyone gave him credit for, which was both sad and downright ignorant.

"Stay close and low beneath your bolas," said the hobbit, "And strike when the dwarves flinch away from the higher swings. Basically, I have to move fast and land any blow that opens up to me."

"Good lad."

Not a moment later, their names were announced and the ready room door was opened for them to enter the dueling arena, light shining down from the massive cauldrons that lined the upper walls and dome-like ceiling. The viewing stands and surrounding floor space was packed with dwarves, several skin-changers, and a handful of men, the latter consisting mostly of Bard's family and their personal guards. Bilbo could see his family and friends sitting directly behind the left boundary, Thorin's face a thundercloud that promised retribution on anyone who tried to speak with him.

Mother Nymeria gave them a small, encouraging smile. Her granddaughter just growled at their opponents.

"Have you selected your preferred weapons and armor?" asked an enormous Broadbeam. His impartiality was likely the reason behind his appointment as judge. "We'll start as soon as you've readied yourselves."

"We're prepared," said Dori, "And ready to defend the honor of our Consort and our children. As Champion, I am representing Consort Bilbo and Master Frodo."

Bifur held up his hands for all to see and signed, _As Champion, I am representing Consort Bilbo and Master Glyn._

"And I am representing myself," said Bilbo, his posture straight and proud and his head held high while defiantly holding Fifnir's murderous gaze. "We are prepared to begin at your command, Master Bolin."

"Then to the center of the ring, Master Dwarves. And Master Hobbit, of course."

As they walked to the middle of the arena, the hobbit placed Glóin's specially crafted helmet atop his head and straightened out his chainmail for the final time. He then ran a careful hand over his pockets, vambraces, and the mithril shirt underneath it all, making sure that everything was in its correct place and wouldn't come loose in the heat of the duel. Bilbo could hear Dori's bolas hit the ground beside him, the absurdly strong dwarf shifting from side to side and getting a good feel for the hard-packed dirt beneath his feet. A fierce growl signaled that Bifur was ready, the axe-ridden dwarf planting himself right in front of Gronin and Rukuhl, fully prepared to intimidate and rush them as soon as the gong was struck.

"Ready positions..."

Bilbo tightened his fingers around Sting and moved into a defensive position. He was far too small to take any of their opponents head-on, so the hobbit was going to have to wait for Dori and Bifur to make their moves and then look for an opening in the dwarves' defenses. In this case, Bilbo's diminutive size could work to his advantage, allowing him to strike quickly and then retreat before the dwarves get grab a hold of him.

"Mahmazar!"

The familiar swoosh of Dori's bolas started the very second that Master Bolin backed out of the arena, directly striking Gronin's shield with the spinning, weighted end of the chain while remaining outside the range of his opponent's sword. Bifur charged straight at Rukuhl, engaging the large dwarf at point-blank range and moving with a swiftness that few would have expected from him. A second bola slammed into the vambrace of Fifnir's left arm, the antagonistic dwarf barely dodging the full brunt of Dori's blows as he twirled and manipulated the heavy iron weights, all three of which had been modified for close-combat instead of exclusively for throwing. Meanwhile, Bilbo moved directly beneath Dori's swings, Sting lashing out at Gronin's unprotected flank while he was distracted and flinching away from the teamaker's next assault.

"Over to my left, Bilbo."

With a parry against Gronin's sword and a swift shuffle to Dori's opposite side, Bilbo ducked straight under the swinging bola and nailed an attacking Fifnir right in the lower thigh with Sting's broad side. Drawing blood wasn't the point of the match, but the hobbit now knew that a direct hit with the hilt or broad side of a sword could hurt just as much as a shallow stab or slash. Bifur was there a moment later, all but body slamming Rukuhl into the Blacklock, hammer strikes fast and brutal as he shoved them directly into the range of Dori's bolas.

"Down low, Bilbo!"

Quickly bending his knees and crouching low to the ground, Bilbo was fully prepared to strike at Rukuhl's knees with Sting on one side and Fifnir's thigh on the other, Dwalin's specially crafted knuckle-dusters digging deep into the armor's opening between knee and thigh. Knowing that the dwarves would strike him in less than a second, Bilbo took a deep breath and rolled backwards, easily fitting between Dori's spread legs and appearing directly below Gronin's tender bits. With another sharp spin of his bolas, Dori was able to distract Gronin from the hobbit's presence and allow Bilbo to strike the Firebeard's family jewels.

"Ahhhhh! You horrid, disgusting lil' rodent!"

"Why so upset, Master Gronin?" asked Dori once the hobbit was safely beneath his bolas again. "Our Consort was simply returning a favored request. I would assume that a dwarf such as yourself would understand that."

If possible, the dwarf's face became even more red and he snarled something awful in Khuzdul that Bilbo didn't understand; however, everyone else certainly did and Bilbo could hear Nori's infuriated shout over everyone else in the crowd. He was genuinely surprised that a throwing knife wasn't buried in Gronin's back. Nori didn't take jabs or insults against his brothers lightly.

"Bilbo..."

And then, just as they'd planned out so thoroughly after checking the rules, Bilbo slipped the small bauble out of his pocket and disappeared right in front of everyone's eyes. Shrieks of surprise and gasps about sorcery rippled through the crowd, only a few of them noticing the proud, knowing smirks that every member of the Company and Royal Family were sporting, their eyebrows raised at the familiar display of invisible magic. Their opponents never saw him coming...

"Owwww! What the—"

Yet another blow struck at the dwarf's knees, effectively knocking Gronin off his feet and allowing Bifur to tackle him from the right side. With a swift turn, Dori was able to keep Fifnir and Rukuhl at a good distance with his bolas, but they all knew that such defensive measures would only work for so long before the dwarves figured out how to maneuver around the swinging weights. However, neither of them were sharp enough to locate Bilbo's exact position—he sincerely hoped that they were too cocky and arrogant to look at the dirt—and this allowed the hobbit to sneak unnoticed beneath Dori's bolas and up behind the two dwarves.

As Dwalin and Nori had similarly stated when they'd examined the law texts: "If they're too inexperienced or dense to look for footprints, indentations, or kicked up dust after you disappear, then they deserve to lose the duel and any humiliation that comes with it."

Balin had just smiled. "You are known as He Who Walks Unseen for a reason, laddie. And there's no mention of invisibility here, so..."

So, with that thought in mind, Bilbo lunged forward and struck Fifnir across the chin with Sting's broad side, dropping to the ground and rolling underneath Dori's bolas as he attempted to coil the chains and weights around Rukuhl's sword. Bifur was grappling with Gronin a few yards away, their blows painfully loud as the axe-ridden dwarf put his opponent into a chokehold and repeatedly whacked his head against the ground. It was absolutely brutal and—

"Where are you, mabar barazâl?!"

A hand grabbed Bilbo's invisible ankle and started to pull him towards Fifnir, the large dwarf bleeding from his nose and nearly spitting teeth in his murderous rage. Despite his instinctive need to pull away, Bilbo could hear his husband's voice shouting in his head, telling him to move in close and use Fifnir's surprise to his advantage. So, with a quick push, Bilbo lunged straight for his attacker's face, Sting's hilt colliding with Fifnir's nose while the hobbit's fist punched him clean in the left eye. The strike to the eye, which Dwalin had assured him was one of the most painful moves that you could ever use on an opponent, caused Fifnir to roar in agony and Bilbo wasted no time in kicking him in the head again.

"You pathetic..."

Bilbo barely managed to duck before a sword and a pile of weighted chains went flying directly above his head, both Dori and Rukuhl charging at each other and grappling for power, the former grunting and sweating with exertion as he attempted to overpower his opponent. Meanwhile, Bifur was still beating the stuffing out of Gronin, who refused to give up no matter how much abuse the berserker reaped upon him. And then Dori released a loud shout and hefted Rukuhl over his shoulder, the Blackbeard quite literally soaring through the air before crashing right into Dáin and his guards.

"I've a worm on my boots, lads. Kindly remove it."

Master Bolin waited for word from the guards before raising his hand and announcing, "Master Rukuhl has been incapacitated through loss of consciousness."

"And that's my brother's answer to all of your proposals!"

The hobbit would've laughed at Dáin's casual dismissal and Nori's taunts if he'd had the time; instead, he noticed Fifnir out of the corner of his eye, the enraged dwarf huffing and charging straight at an unawares Dori. Without a second thought, Bilbo rushed to his feet and leapt onto the Blacklock's back, knuckle-dusters digging deep into Fifnir's unprotected throat while Sting's hilt repeatedly smashed into his head until the helmet fell off.

Whack!

"I've had it up to here..."

Thunk!

"With you stupid..."

Smack!

"Arrogant dwarves!"

To the eyes of everyone in the audience, it looked like Fifnir was trying to scratch a particularly nasty itch on his upper back or shoulders. In reality, he had an outrageously irritated hobbit pummeling the beejeezus out of his head, several sections of his hair and beard falling to the ground when Sting's blade made contact with it. And then Bifur appeared from the other side, a groaning Gronin still trapped in a chokehold while the berserker punched Fifnir in the chin. Bilbo squeaked when he felt the Blacklock sway to the side, Fifnir's blade grazing the hobbit's unprotected feet that were wrapped around his armored waist. His poor foot fuzz didn't stand a chance...

"You will _not_ be courting or marrying my brother," snarled Dori, his fist also connecting with Fifnir's cheek. "He deserves better than grub scum like you."

With that said, Bifur's unoccupied hand grabbed Bilbo's mail and hauled him off the teetering dwarf, a simple nod signaling for Dori to execute his specialty move. Grey eyes gleaming with vicious intent, Dori seized Fifnir's lower arm and shoulder, easily hauling the dwarf into a throwing position before spinning and chucking him across the arena and into a crowd of his fellow Blacklocks. And then Dwalin gave him a discreet kick for good measure.

This time, Master Bolin inspected the dwarf himself before announcing, "Master Fifnir has been incapacitated through loss of consciousness."

Bifur asked in Khuzdul, _What should I do with this one?_

Dori sauntered over like an albino peacock and asked, "Which one are you referring to, Bifur? You must be specific."

 _The one that has a beard._

"Ah, well, that option certainly livens things up," drawled Dori. He stepped in front of a half-unconscious Gronin and proceeded to poke him in the head multiple times. "It'd be terrible to break with tradition, so I believe another shoulder toss may be in order. What do you think, My Consort?"

Bilbo slipped off the Ring and reappeared on Bifur's unoccupied side, the crowd gasping in surprise when they saw the hobbit flash into existence again. Whispers about the magical capabilities of halflings and their close association with strange wizards started to filter through the audience, no one noticing how Bilbo discreetly slipped his golden bauble into a hidden pocket along his upper thigh. The Royal Family and Company remained silent and allowed the rumors to circulate; after all, what was wrong with their dear Consort having some protective mystique surrounding him?

Perhaps they'd get lucky and Bilbo's powers of invisibility would still the tongues and fists of naysayers in the future.

"That sounds like a wonderful idea, Dori."

"I was dearly hoping that you would agree with my suggestion," said Dori as he grabbed Gronin's shoulder. "Oh, are you surprised by our Consort's sudden reappearance? It seems that we dwarves have a terrible habit of underestimating hobbits. They're an astoundingly special bunch. Wouldn't you agree, Bifur?"

_Excellent cooks, too. Magic cookies and cupcakes and flowers._

"Too right!" shouted Bofur from his newfound home atop Bombur's shoulders. "Our hobbit's a magical chef and dragon-riddler!"

"As you can see, our hobbit's quite well-liked in these parts," said Dori. He didn't object when Bifur shook the dwarf with an unrepentant grin. "Now, I've some lovely saffron tea and mint biscuits to sample at my shop, so it'd be prudent to end this charade as soon as possible. With your leave, My Consort?"

Bilbo nodded. "Seems like an excellent opportunity to try for a new record."

With a grunt and firm planting of his feet, Dori hurled the Firebeard across the arena, making sure that he landed right in front of the royal family and delegation leaders. He dusted his hands off with a huff and turned around to glare at the twittering crowd. They didn't seem to know whether to applaud or wait for the possibility of another round in the ring.

"I will not be courting or marrying _anyone_ ," boomed the teamaker, "And neither will my brother. So you'd best keep your words and your gifts to yourself in the future."

Several groans of despair could be heard from the audience, Bilbo instinctively rolling his eyes at the ridiculous behavior of dwarves. He'd chosen Dori for a good reason to be his Champion, and it largely centered around the persnickety teamaker being an excellent friend, brutal fighter, and needing to show the visiting dwarves that neither he nor Nori were pieces of exotic Longbeard meat to be won at auction. Thankfully, Ori was still two decades too young to worry about courting offers, but Bilbo sincerely hoped that the lad's future suitors—male and female alike—wouldn't be quite so pushy or annoying courtesy of his older brother's vocal and very visual refusal.

Master Bolin walked over and promptly announced, "Master Gronin has been incapacitated through loss of consciousness."

Releasing a gigantic sigh of relief, the disheveled hobbit slumped back against Bifur's side and allowed the dirt-covered dwarf to support his tired weight. For the first time in several months, Bilbo felt a mountain's worth of tension bleed from his aching muscles and shoulders, reveling in the fact that the silly honor duel was over and that he'd won with Dori and Bifur at his side. Unfortunately, Bilbo also realized that his whole body was throbbing from the numerous hits and tumbles he'd taken during the match, manic energy and adrenaline leeching from his system like an unpleasant meal of spoiled fish.

"Uncle Bilbo!"

Three pairs of arms were wrapped around him not a moment later, smoochy kisses and loud whoops and hollers signaling the arrival of Bilbo's nephews. He didn't hesitate to kiss any of them on the cheek or forehead, so relieved he was that everything was over now. He'd scarcely spent any time with his boys or Gimli or Billa over the past few months, which was something that needed to be remedied as soon as possible. Preferably by the end of the week.

"Your choices were certainly wiser than I gave you credit for," rumbled a deep, familiar voice. "I think Dori and Bifur thoroughly enjoyed trouncing their opponents, especially that last one. And it appears that my Consort's magical powers have marked him as a great sorcerer, too."

"Honestly, you dwarves are ridiculous when it comes to titles and nicknames," said Bilbo, leaning forward to kiss his husband on the lips. "I've already been labeled with so many that I can't even remember all of them."

"The Stinging Shadow has a nice ring to it."

"Oh goodness, that's even worse than all of the other ones," groaned Bilbo as his sister-in-law moved in for a tight hug. "Would someone please bestow a few titles upon Dori and Bifur? They deserve them far more than me!"

Dís grinned and said, "Your honor is firmly intact, nadad melekûn. But I fear that, despite his efforts, Master Dori may have even more offers of courtship and marriage due to his outstanding display in the ring. However, I don't think anyone will be referring to Master Bifur as addle-minded anymore."

"I should hope not," said Bilbo with an angry sniff. "He's perfectly fine the way he is. Simple-minded fools, all of them."

Bilbo didn't resist when he was pulled away by Master Bolin, both Dori and Bifur coming to stand at his side again. The enormous Broadbeam judge and his two companions finished filling out the official contract that had been drawn up for the three-part duel of honor. All conscious and non-concussed participants gave their signatures before it was then handed to the Blacklock and Firebeard leaders. Both were quite sour-faced, but no complaints nor excuses were made for the appalling behaviors of their younger kin. Thorin, Dáin, and Balin were the last to sign as witnesses and representatives of the Longbeard clans, the latter carefully surveying the contract to make sure that none of the conditions had been altered without his knowledge.

"It's finally over," said Bilbo as they were leaving the Chamber of Honor. "And I've lost half of my foot fuzz to prove it."

Thorin kissed him on the forehead, carefully repositioned Frodo atop his broad shoulders, and said, "Óin's following us. And there will be no escaping him once back we're in the royal apartments."

"I wouldn't expect any less from him."

"Uncle Bilbo's mooning everyone with his lack of appropriate foot fuzz," gasped Kíli in that melodramatic manner of his. "Quick! We have to cover him!"

And Bilbo was hoisted up between his nephews and Gimli after that, the boys obviously looking for a good reason to carry him without reproach. There might have also been some long overdue cuddling in there as well, but Bilbo wasn't about to scold them. The gashes and cuts atop his feet were starting to ache something fierce now, so being carried was a lovely option at this point.

"I think Bifur tried to stomp on Gronin again."

"Good dwarf."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's over! Whew, another story done. I can honestly say that I never expected this series to expand beyond _An Unexpected Addition_ , but it's definitely turned into a beast of its own over the past year. However, this will definitely be my last long-ish story for a good while, at least until the end of the summer. My research trip and summer GTA position will be taking up all my time, so nothing beyond drabbles or short stories will be happening in the foreseeable future. And I'm very sorry if this story was a migraine and not up to par with previous ones. Things were quite...bizarre these last two months, but the situation has thankfully been resolved at this point. So, yet again, thank you to everyone who took the time to read and support me with this particular story. You guys are awesome.
> 
> Mabar barazâl = bed heater or equivalent to whore/prostitute/bed-warmer.


End file.
